Another Night, Another Path
by kkolmakov
Summary: A collection of smutty unrelated one-shots between the King Under the Mountain and his Queen. Same verse as "Thorin's Queen." Can be read independently.
1. Another Path

**A/N: In anticipation of cooperating with the glorious RagdollPrincess on a sequel to her story "What the Future Brings" (check out the story before her and I venture into writing it, but remember this story can be read INDEPENDENTLY, since it is just pure, honest SMUT:D) and with the gratitude to her for bequeathing me with her HOT, LECHEROUS, EXPERIENCED THORIN, I present you with little something I drafted on a ride on the posh express train from Moscow to my native St. Petersburg. Note that it is 7,389 words in four hours. I miss Thorin that much :)**

**Note that it is a different Thorin (darker, sexier, oh poop!), slightly different Wren (from Bree, not Dale, but the character is more or less the same), and their backstory is slightly different (I'll be posting a prequel to our sequel soon:), but this piece is just happy smut! Enjoy :)**

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To say that Thorin is irritated is to say nothing. He is so irked that he is grinding his teeth and has already broken two quills. The cursed letter to the cursed Elvenking just would not take form. Formidable pointy eared bastard! Thorin just wants to throw the damn quill in the furthest corner of his study, push the paper into a drawer, and go to bed. And he curses himself. Why did he even think about the bed? The soft sheets, a faint smell of some flowers, everything in his life now smells so fresh and sweet, pillows of just the right firmness, and the small warm body... He clenches his fist and groans. No, he will finish the letter, and only then... He imagines shedding the layers of velvet and silk and sliding under the sheets in the buff. And the delectable small buttocks that he will find there. Curse the letter! Curse the Elf!

There is a polite knock at the door, and he does not need to lift his eyes to know who it is. Light steps in the leather night shoes, familiar fragrance, gentle smell of those bushes with bunches of white and purple flowers, coming from her skin, and this funny tender feeling in his chest he gets every time she enters the room.

"My lord? Are you still working?" The tone is gentle, concerned, and if he is not wrong, and he rarely is with her, she is so kindred and warm, slightly playful. He hums in agreement.

Do not look at her, not even a glimpse. One look at her, and no work will be done tonight. She is probably in a nightgown, one of those flimsy lacy dresses that are driving him mad. He suspects that such is their purpose since they hardly provide any warmth. Then again, who knows, she rarely ends up wearing them long enough to find out. She does not seem to mind, claiming that his body provides enough heat. She often falls asleep sprawled on him and wakes up curled into his side. He likes the feeling of tightly holding her small body and the pleasure that floods him even before he opens his eyes. Her skin feels cool to him, and right now he wants nothing more than to press every inch of his body to the smooth, pale, glorious... No, Thorin Oakenshield has some willpower, he is not lifting his eyes. And although there is probably a demure robe on her, he knows what is underneath. Oh Mahal, how much he enjoys what is underneath!

If the hair is loose, he might not even manage this paragraph. Soft, glowing like gold, like fire, long waves running between his fingers, playful little curls on her temples... He suddenly clearly recollects them wet, sticking to her skin after especially rampant release, her eyes closed in ecstasy, a blue vein beating under pale skin on her temple.

He gives up. Curse the Elvenking, curse the negotiations. He looks up and freezes. The hair is indeed loose, luscious curls on her shoulders, and as he knows covering her back, a few long locks soft on her chest. But there is no robe. And the night dress is strange. Although the more he looks, the less adequate he deems the word "strange".

At the front it only reaches her knees, but it is longer at the back, the colour is one of those that women give elaborate names to, slightly green, or perhaps blue. Her skin is glowing, soft and even, and he gulps. There are no sleeves, just straps of lace on her slender shoulders, and the bodice is lacy. He can see the pink peaks of her breasts, already pebbled, and he thinks it might the most provocative attire he has ever seen on a woman.

All her curves are open to his eyes, but the gentle tinge of colour from the gown somehow makes them even more enticing, somehow new, although by now he feels he has studied every inch of her. He has made it a conscious effort, sliding his calloused palms over her even skin. Sometimes she is reposing on his chest, and he is stroking her hip and lower back, his eyes closed.

He smirks. The dress is useless, it does not hide anything, does not provide any warmth, so the only goal is to lure him. That is ridiculous, he can hardly keep his hands off her when she is bundled in heavy velvet attires. His study is adjoint to their bedchambers, but the thought of her walking around in this gauzy scrap of material makes his member swell, and he shifts in his chair uncomfortably.

She is so demure and decorous in everyday life, but he met his match in the bedchambers. Once she whispered into his ear during an official dinner with Dain Ironfoot that she was not wearing any drawers. He tried to get this thought out of his head during several hours of feasting, but it was too much for him. He dragged her into a passage and proceeded to investigate. She did not lie, and he turned her to face the wall and bunched up her skirts. He had just a few minutes, but her sucking and biting on his fingers, arching her back and pushing her delectable small bum into him in return did the trick.

It takes a lot of effort to tear his gaze from her body so clearly seen through the transparent fabrique, but he manages to look into her eyes. They are shining, the everchanging colour is dark and brilliant tonight, and he recognised the expression. He is going to be shamelessly ravished. He cannot wait.

"The bed is cold, my King," certain parts of his anatomy jerk in anticipation.

"Come closer, kurdu," he stretches his hand to her. With all honesty he cannot even remember what he is doing at this table. He just needs to eliminate the distance between their bodies. She tut-tuts and turns around. Oh Mahal, the buttocks. Small, round, made especially for his palms...

"I am going back to bed, my King," the voice is tilting, and colourful plans form in his head. One time this way, then to flip her over, lift her leg on his shoulder... "You are joining me soon, are you not?" She throws him a look over her shoulder, and he dashes towards her from his chair. The ink bottle topples, and the unfinished letter is ruined. He honestly could not care less.

She is very swift, shapely legs and tiny feet, and she manages to escape his grasp with a throaty chuckle. The tail of the dress, and Mahal, there are definitely no drawers underneath it, swooshes in the air, she turns a corner and disappears in the bedchamber. He abruptly halts and starts walking slower, stretching the sweet anticipation.

That is the best part of his new life. She is. And the knowledge that she is not going anywhere. And any time he needs her, she is exactly where she should be, always with the right word for him, calm and confident, her small hand to caress if he craves warmth, reassuring when he is doubtful. She is attentive, considerate and gentle. She is strong too, stubborn and willful. There is just the right amount of challenge and riddle in her to keep him interested, to keep him on his toes.

And then he feels like a fool. There is a half naked woman waiting for him in that room, and he is standing in the middle of a passage, mauldin like a foolish youngling. He enters and locks the door behind him.

She is sitting on the bed, pose relaxed, one of the straps slipped off her shoulder, and he can almost taste the smooth skin. He comes closer to the bed and smiles to her.

"We have a matter to discuss, my lord," her tone is business like, but it hardly matches the impish expression. And she is playing with a ribbon that is laced between the two halves of her bodice. He presses one knee into the bed.

"And what is the matter, my Queen?" He likes calling her that, he likes the thought.

"Before we proceed," she is pulling on the ribbon now, and he is very uncomfortable in his trousers, "Today is a fertile night, my lord." The meaning does not register right away, and then he tears his eyes from her fingers on the lace and looks in her eyes. Mahal, he is so in love with her. "But since we decided to wait for me to finish my course of herbs, and I cannot take the ones that prevent conception, we might want to avoid certain activities." He blinks. She is wearing the most provocative attire and is currently drawing swirls on her hip with tips of her fingers. Surely she does not suggest they chastely go to sleep!

And then he laughs at the thought. He remembers how shocked and, let us be honest, pleased he was to find out that his blushing bride, practically a virgin on their wedding night, is endlessly lustful, indecent and insatiable.

"That certainly limits our choices, ghivashel," he unbuckles his belt, quickly takes off his doublet and pulls off his tunic for good measure. She is so obviously ogling his chest every time she has a chance that he decides to use it as an incentive.

She hikes her brows and murmurs, "Or we can use this opportunity to widen our horizons, try new approaches, explore new locations..."

His hands are on the strings of his breeches, and he freezes. They have been married for four months, and they have been very, very busy. On top of his head he can think only of one thing they have not tried. Surely she does not suggest?..

She is obviously aware of the physiological side of it, she is a former healer after all, but he suddenly wonders whether she understands how such actions are viewed by other women. And how such pleasures most often are available for men only in exchange for a monetary fee. And then he assumes she does, again having little practical experience herself she is highly knowledgeable and worldly.

Unexpectedly he feels bashful. She is his wife, his Queen, and this image just seems too... obscene. There is regal air about her, has always been, even when he saw her in a simple robe of a healer in Bree, her hair in a plain braid around her head. She is dignified, noble, and suddenly performing such act with her makes him feel unworthy. He is fond of it, obviously, and like most men when lying in such way with a woman he mostly enjoys exactly the forbidden lecherous nature of it. He realizes that he has been frozen in front of her since she spoke last, and that her eyes are intensely scrutinizing his face. He swallows. She is waiting.

He knows he wants it. Mahal, now that he has thought of it, his mind races. He is intimately familiar with her quim, hours and hours have been spent looking, touching, licking, sucking... He adores how her folds warm up, welcoming his caresses, and how the colour changes from pale pink to almost red. Never under the most horrible of tortures would he confess it, but every time when his fingers and lips slide between her spread legs he thinks that it is like a flower, blooming and fragrant, opening up just for him. But no, he is not some mawkish dimwit to come up with poetic comparisons for his wife's quim!

He has studied her sex so well, every inch of her skin dear and beautiful for him, and of course his thoughts have strayed a bit... back as well. He might have gotten carried away a few times and slid his finger to her other hole. She would yelp, and her whole body would jerk. And still he thought it was more a reaction of surprise than pleasure. And here she is sitting in front of him, her body covered by a thin gauzy gown, nothing hidden, let us be honest, and seems to be suggesting... what?

And he is worried. Are the two of them speaking of the same thing? He frantically starts recollecting but it seems that the rest has been already explored. What if they are not? He might insult her, and he feels even more of a fool. How can you ask your wife if she has just offered you...? And then he realizes he does not know a proper expression for it. And shortly wonders if there is a proper expression for it. Offensive ways to ask for it, that he knows. Making sure you are not going to shock your wife by suddenly proceeding in a wrong direction is quite a different matter altogether.

He sits on the edge of the bed and picks up her hand. Mahal, this is awkward. He lifts his eyes at her and suddenly feels so much better. What is he so apprehensive of? She is his wife, it is her, his Zundushinh, his beloved. Surely they can converse openly.

And then he notices blush spreading all over her small body. And he feels even better. She is as embarrassed as he is. And he shortly feels surprised but it is true, he is embarrassed. She probably knows nothing about it, he knows way too much. He gently squeezes her small hand in his and then pushes her into the sheets with his weight. The green, or are they brown, eyes widen, lips slightly open. The slender arms wrap around his neck, and he smiles into her lips.

"Have you ever tried what you are offering, my heart?" The lashes flutter, and she bites her bottom lip.

"No, and I am aware of how it is perceived... But I thought we could..." She stutters, and the cheeks are burning, "I thought we could try... It is after all just another way to enjoy each other..."

"Oh Mahal, I am a very lucky Dwarf..." He blurts out and then bites his tongue. Thinking it is one thing, he does every day, but he just confessed his sentimentality. He hides his embarrassment by kissing her jaw.

She laughs, "Because I suggested such act?" His lips slide down her neck.

"No, because this is how you see it... You and I... Enjoying each other..." Mahal, he is going to do everything possible to ensure she is enjoying it!

He is caressing her neck with his lips, intertwining his fingers with hers, sliding the tip of his nose up and down her throat. She is tilting her head, her breathing speeding up, her slanted eyes closing in pleasure.

"How much do you know, zundush?" She tenses, though only an instant ago her small body was soft and pliable under his lips and roaming hands.

"Men like it, most women do not. Many have never tried it. And it hurts, at least the first time. And later as well, if a man is not careful. And I am certain you do not want to know the medical side of it, my lord," she speaks quickly and curtly, and his lips halt on the collar of her gown. He lifts his upper body slightly and cups her face.

"It only hurts if a man is forceful, some women love it, and I do not wish to know the medical side for certain," he smiles to her, and her lips twitch. "Do you trust me, my heart?" That finally brings a smile to her lips.

"Completely," she kisses him shortly, and then giggles. She always giggles when she is aroused. It drives him into sensual frenzy. Once he managed to pleasure her into laughing during her release. He endeavours to repeat such success many times in the nearest future.

She is worrying her bottom lip, and he understand there is bit more talking required before they start. He is slowly unlacing the front of her gown, slightly caressing her skin with the tips of his fingers.

Never before had he wanted to be tender with a woman or a man. Passionate, inventive, even considerate of their release, yes, but overwhelmed with some piercing, almost painful tenderness, that came with her. Sometimes he runs his fingers through her hair, lulling her to sleep, attentively watching the small changes in her face, lashes fluttering, eyes moving under delicate lids, lips relaxing. Thorin is madly in love with his wife.

"What is it, azyungel?" She is gives him a shy look.

"I... I liked it, when you would touch... I just did not know how to ask for more..." A wrinkle appears between her brows, "Is there even a proper way to ask for such... attentions?" Thorin guffaws. He laughs a lot with her, she makes him laugh more than he can remember laughing in his whole life.

"Would you like to come with a poetic name for it, my lady?" He already pulled the ribbon out and lowers his lips on her breasts, "If we ever decide to repeat such act." Her answer once again reminds him why he fell for her. She is endlessly practical and sober.

"Well, that is just foolish. If people partake such activity, they might as well call it as it is." She sounds disdainful, and he guffaws again. He has moved lower and is bunching up her skirt. She lifts her hips to assist him.

"And what would that be exactly, my oh so not romantic Queen?"

"The proper term for it would be sodomy, my lord." Her tone is stern, and he lifts her upper body with one hand, sliding his palm under her shoulder blades, and deftly pulls off her night gown with another.

His mouth is pressed to her soft stomach, and he hums into her skin. She arches into him, she likes the beard. She apparently likes all of him, which she also likes to tell him, mixing kisses and bites with feverish words. He never gave it a lot of thought before, but the fact that she actually enjoys how he looks is very gratifying. Especially considering the way she chooses to express her appreciation. He had not cared for bedroom talk previously, and especially for this sort. With her he sometimes even asks for clarification, although he never had expected to care for compliments to his physique. Perhaps the fact that they are accompanied by enthusiastic caresses of small strong hands and mixed with licks and bites made him crave them so often. She says she cannot help it and blushes furiously. He also knows openness takes effort, and he tries to reciprocate. Perhaps, tonight he should try harder.

She is bare, spread in front of him, and just as always in the last few months he is overwhelmed with desire to throw all caution aside and bed her and spill his seed into her without restraint. But they have decided to wait, and he knows the decision was right. No one knows what would such parturiency do to a body of a woman of Men, especially so small as her. They have to be careful. They have to be prepared. But the idea of planting life inside her is driving him mad. His child growing inside her... He gently bites into her stomach, and she moans.

She is very vocal, and after the first few times he thought that perhaps someone had told her that it was a compliment for a man and she should endeavour to show her appreciation. To his shock not only was she not putting up a show, she was not aware of the noises she makes altogether. She got endlessly embarrassed when he made a comment. And it took a lot of convicting and a few interesting efforts for her to stop being conscious and trying to suppress her moans and screams of pleasure. She did indeed try to restrain herself for a while afterwards, but three of his fingers buried in her to his knuckles were too much even for her iron will.

Her will is one of many things he admires about her. She is indeed the perfect wife for him. He loves watching her during councils. Her slow, as if delicate bending the elder Dwarves to her will, her cautious but decisive words, polite smile and cold eyes, and imminent getting what she deems necessary. After the councils he beds her especially fervently.

He slides his palms under her buttocks and lifts her to his lips, opening her up, her shoulder blades on the sheets, her back arched. He covers her sex with his open mouth, and a raspy half-scream falls from her lips. He slowly caresses her with his tongue, encircling her entrance, spreading the folds, and then he shifts her pelvis, supports it on one of his large palms, while he pushes the index finger of the second one inside her. She is chanting something incoherent, he is dipping the finger deeply into her. He pays special attention to the back wall of her quim, in the anticipation of what to come.

"Move it there… I want it there..." Her voice is raspy and to his immense pleasure rather commanding. He slowly pulls the finger out of her and presses it into the other entrance. It is pink and tight, and he rubs it, spreading her juices. She is moaning, and there is a note of impatience in her voice. And then he splays his free palm on her stomach, and a fluid movement he flips her. She arches her back, pushing her buttocks up, and he is kissing and nipping on the round flesh.

"What is this fragrance, my lady?" He pushes two fingers into her, once again rubbing her walls, while his thumb presses into the other hole.

"It is… Different herbs..." She is panting, "I took a bath, um… Oh more!.. More , Thorin! A special bath in anticipation… Oh Mahal, Thorin..." He bites into her bum harder, and she is quite obviously rubbing her clit to the sheets.

"I appreciate the smell of those flowers on your folds as well, my lady..."

"It is lilacs… Oh Maiar..." With the thumb and the fingers of his other hand he spreads her buttocks and presses a kiss on the pink hole. He sees her hands grasping bunches of sheets.

"Do not rush, my Queen, we cannot have you satisfied just yet. You need to be willing, hungry, craving…" She whimpers. He smirks, he needs her as aroused as possible. His voice is gruff, "Wet, quivering, yearning…" He licks her hole and then slightly pushes the tip of his tongue in. She squeals and pushes her bum up to his mouth.

"Tell me, my reasonable Queen, how else did you prepare for such lecherous acts with your husband?" He is rubbing her orifice, more and more forcefully, with the pulp of his index finger. "You took a bath, chose an absolutely indecent attire, have you tried touching yourself there?" She is moaning in her full voice now. "Have you pushed your adorable little finger into yourself, my Queen?" The noises she is making could be understood either way, affirmation or negation, and he gently pushes his finger inside, just the very tip.

"The balm..." Her voice is choked, and he leans ahead, sliding his open mouth along her spine. She shudders and moans his name.

"What was it, my lady?" He whispers into her ear. She is battering her hand on the sheets, and he realizes she is pointing at a table near the bed. There is a jar on it.

"Oh Mahal, you have prepared," he chuckles darkly and releases her. Her pelvis falls into the sheets, and she is whimpering from relief and disappointment at the same time. And then she deftly starts rubbing herself to the sheets, and he presses his large hand on her lower back halting her. "No, none of that. I need you starved, my Queen." She tries to shake him off, but he has already reached for the jar. He dunks his finger in the viscid balm and then deftly slides it from her tailbone down to her perineum.

She groans and spreads her legs wide. In decisive circular movement he warms her up, and then slowly and gradually he pushes his finger into her, only a half, his lips and tongue caressing her buttocks.

"More..." Her tone is assertive. He chuckles and slowly turns the finger.

"Patience, my heart, you need to get accustomed to the intrusion." His finger moves in and out, each time a bit deeper, and he is thoroughly enjoying the tightness around his digit.

At the same time, he is worried. His member stretches her to the limit, and that would be her quim, which is actually made for it. She is just so small. He will hurt her. He momentarily cowardly considers suggesting pleasuring each other with their mouths. Their heads in the opposite directions, her graceful narrow feet with pink little toes dangling in the air, his hands supporting her pelvis above his mouth, they spent a lot of very enjoyable hours this way…

And suddenly, while he is momentarily distracted by his fainthearted doubts, she slowly but decisively pushes her hips towards him, and his finger slips into her fully.

"Oh, Maiar, that is so sweet… Why have we not done that before, Thorin?.." She is sobbing on the sheets, and he is staring at the elegant back of his wife in complete shock.

He slides on the sheets near her and kisses her shoulder blades. They are delicate, one of his obsessions, and he licks the smooth fragrant skin. His heart suddenly clenches with a feeling that has nothing to do with carnal hunger, and to his own astoundment he feels his eyes sting. The acts they are involved at that moment are favoured by men for the feeling of dominance, but he feels humbled and vulnerable and presses his cheek to her cool skin.

He slowly pulls out his finger and continues caressing her back with his mouth. As always she is so attuned to his moods that she relaxes on the sheets, abandoning the sensual frenzy of just an instant ago. She lowers her head and sighs softly. Cursed tears would not retreat, and Thorin presses his forehead to her lower back. His palm is stroking her hip, and her slender arm snakes back, and she intertwines her fingers with his other hand. He murmurs the words of love in Khuzdul, and he knows she is smiling into the sheets. He wills himself to quit this sentimentality, but then he remembers that he is safe with her.

He flips her over and looks into her eyes. They are smiling, loving and unguarded. He rolls over her, and she opens her legs, accommodating him. Their lips meet, and he pushes his forearms under her shoulder blades. She sighs into his lips, their lips caress each other, and he feels the hunger rising again. She is his, completely his, but he again craves more, more possession over her, more abandon, more submission to her… She arches into him, rubs her center to him, and then sliding her mouth on his jaw she bites into his beard.

"You are overdressed, my lord." One of her hands slips on his buttock, and she squeezes. He chuckles.

Pushing off the bed, he rises on his knees and then quickly divests himself of his trousers. She is lying on the bed, her eyes narrowed, salacious smirk on her lips. He momentarily wonders, as hundreds of times before, how can his demure and noble Queen be at the same times so wanton and lewd? Her eyes scrutinize his member, erect and twitching, and she licks her lips. Oh these lips… Never in his life has he had such flagrant releases as with her. Even at the beginning, when she was lacking in experience. Before him she had never performed oral acts on any man, but the first time her pink lips locked around him he had to push her off himself in just a few moments. When his first release hit the back of her throat, he thought he almost lost consciousness. She also turned out to be a quick and enthusiastic learner, and he would laugh that the feral smirk skimming her lips before she would take him into her mouth was truly terrifying. If she endeavoured for such acts to become her establishing her power over him, she succeeded. He would be sobbing and shaking under her small strong hands caressing his testes, her swift pink tongue licking off his seed from his member, and she would purr…

"How shall we proceed, my lord?" He grabs her ankles and pulls her to himself, spreading her legs at the same time.

"You need to be prepared, my lady, stretched..."

"Mmm, that sounds delicious. How are we going to achieve this, my lord?" The corners of her lips curl up, and he is worried they might not have time. If she continues giving his these looks, he is going to lose control and fuck her into the sheets. He places one of his hands near her shoulder, lowers his mouth on hers, and his other hands slides between her legs. It is the same hand he has used on her orifice before, and he knows it cannot come into contact with her sex. He gently bites her bottom lip and then tears off his mouth from her.

"I need you to spread some of your juices, Zundushinh."

She was supporting her upper body on her elbows, to meet his mouth half way, and she falls back into sheets. She gives him a lazy sensual smile and lifts her hand. It does not lie on her folds though, she starts with her breasts. She catches her nipple between her thumb and index finger and gently twirls it. Then she cups her breast, in an obvious offering, and he lowers his open mouth on it. They are so small, that he sucks it into his mouth almost fully. He used to be fond of generous bosom, but Mahal he has never loved any part of female anatomy more that the perky, graceful, tender teats of his wife. Oh wait, her backside though, or her sex, or her legs, or her lips, or her strong little fingers, or… What is the point to muse? All of these are his to enjoy, and he has all the time in the world to pay homage to all of them.

Her hand slides down her stomach, she mimics walking with her fingers, and he chuckles, and then her tiny index finger reaches her curls. With the pulps of her index and middle fingers she gives her clit a decisive but gentle swirl and then pushes them inside. He is sucking on her other breast, and she moans raspily.

"What are you thinking about when your fingers are inside you, kurdu?" She chuckles, and he looks up at her. Her eyes are closed, her fingers slowly moving, and one corner of her curved lips is lifted.

"Herbal medicine, obviously." He is staring at her. She opens her eyes and then gives him a wink.

He laughs. She makes him so happy! He moves a bit lowers and watches her fingers. She is very gentle with herself, and then she slides her fingers to her other hole. The digits are moving in the circular movements, and then she pushes her middle finger in.

He kisses her ribs and mumbles into her skin, "Add another, azyungel..." She complies and moans.

"How many will I need?"

"I will replace your hand after two," he is kissing her hip, "Now move them like scissors, stretch yourself..." She complies again, and then she makes a frustrated noise.

"I want you… I want your fingers, Thorin..."

"They are much thicker, haban..." She pulls hers out sharply and flips on her stomach.

"Do it already," she is so irked that he guffaws. He takes some more of the balm she has prepared and slowly pushes two of his fingers in. She tenses, and he rubs the tip of his nose to her back.

"Relax, my heart, you need to relax… You are so tight, so innocent, untouched there..." She raspily exhales. He is peppering kisses on her lower back. Bedroom talk is not his forte, but, Mahal, for her he will do his best. "I love it that I am the first in there, I love exploring you, my heart… You are driving me mad with desire, azyungel, ghivashel, haban, kurdu..." He switches to Khuzdul, his head spinning, and he moves his fingers, his erection painful, and she raspily cries out. "You are so beautiful, my Queen, all of you, your glowing skin, your small fingers and toes, your delicate teats, your curves, this curve..." He draws a swirl on her hip with his tongue and gently bites into her flesh.

"More, Thorin, you can add more..." He scissors his digits in her, and she tenses again.

"See, your little hole is not ready yet… But it will be, I will prepare it for me, and then you will spread your legs for me, my Queen..." She moans and suddenly her whole body jolts and shudders in a release. She screams into the sheets, grabbing handfuls of them, her back bending, and she is sobbing, chanting his name, and as he realizes something in Khuzdul.

"Malal… Ursel..." She rasps.

He hums into her hip. Her body sags, and she is taking short shallow breaths. He puts his head on her buttock and closes his eyes. To his own surprise he feels almost satisfied. If she wishes to go to sleep now, he will probably agree and…

But then she slightly shifts her hips and in a low voice murmurs, "You are not moving, my lord." He chuckles and continues his ministrations, carefully watching her reactions. She seems to be immediately recovered and starts arching her back anew. Insatiable woman! He shakes his head in disbelief and adds another finger.

"Oh yes, Thorin. So much better…" He spreads her walls, paying attention to what seems to bring most pleasure, and then he slows down.

"Are you ready for me, my heart?" She lifts her head, props herself on her elbows and looks at him over her shoulder.

"I cannot wait."

He pulls his hand out and shifts his weight. He adds more balm, generously smearing it on his member and her entrance. Then he aligns their hips, his erection brushing her delectable buttocks, and she spreads her legs. He supports his weight on one straight arms, and holding his member in his hand he pushes the tip into her orifice. She gasps.

"Relax, my heart, you need to take deep breaths..." He pushes a bit deeper, moving slowly, but she whines and he can see her shoulder blades are tense. He is very large, Dwarves are. The width of their build is reflected in their phalli, and he is also long. He halts and lets her take a few breaths. And then he proceeds, but with each half inch he is more and more doubtful.

Suddenly she growls, "Would you stop worrying already?" Her tone is grouchy, and she looks at him over her shoulder. Her pupils are so large that he cannot see the amber irises. "I appreciate your gentleness, but I have to say I am rather impatient." He cocks a brow, and she licks her lips. He pushes in, almost all his length disappearing in her, and she screams. He freezes, but her breathy "Maiar, so good..." is rather reassuring. He starts rocking his hips, and she is mewling appreciatively.

He finds the rhythm and after a few gentle gradual movements he is fully buried on her hole. He is stroking her back, feeling goosebumps under his palm, and she exhales loudly.

"You can move..." He chuckles.

"And what would you call what I did before?"

"Snail pace?" Her voice is mocking, and he guffaws. And thrusts in her, though the swing of his hips is moderate. She gasps and tenses. He hisses, she is choking him.

"Relax, zundush, you are cutting my blood circulation..." She answers in an intricate swearing in Khuzdul. He did not know she was even aware of such words. Somehow it spurs his desire, and he thrusts again.

"More..." He doubts he heard right, but then she repeats, her tone insistent, "More, Thorin..." He places the second hand near her body stretched on the bed and slightly lifts his hips.

"Put your legs together, azyungel..." She mewls, he realizes she is hardly conscious enough to understand him, but then her legs move, and she squeezes him even more, her small firm buttocks locking on the base of his member. He groans, and suddenly understands he is close to his release. He needs to prolong it, make it worthwhile for her.

He shifts his knees, moves them ahead, almost straddling her, and supporting his weight on straight arms he pulls almost fully out and then thrusts into her forcefully. She screams, and small fists are battering on the sheets.

He repeats the maneuver, and then he leans down to her ear and asks, "Would you like more of that or should we go back to more shallow movements? I need you to enjoy this, my Queen." She is whining, shaking her head. "Choose your pleasure, my Queen."

"More of the deep..." Her voice is raspy, and he moves his knees wider, aiming for more swing. His first thrust makes her emit a shrieky scream. And then again, and again, each next one no less volatile, choked sobs falling from her lips, until he can see her sagging, her fingers uncurling, and he slows down.

"Perhaps I even need you to climax like that, my heart. I might have to ask you to slide your fingers under your sweet little quim." She moans. "I know you are tired, my heart, but you need to try..." He lowers his lips to her shoulder and swirls his tongue on her skin. She shudders, and he can see her hand slide underneath her pelvis. "Curl up your fingers inside yourself, zundush. You know the spot… That little patch of skin… I want you to rub it gently, imagine it is my finger..."

Suddenly he feels the tips of her fingers brush the base of his cock, and he jerks. She repeats the actions, this time much less feathery, her short nails gently scrape his skin. And then she arches her back to get more access, and her fingers slide inside her sex. She starts rubbing his member through her wall. He growls.

"Slow down, zundush. I am close..." He sees the corner of her lips curl up in an impish grin, and suddenly she squeezes him inside, both her holes constrict, and her fingers press into her wall into his cock. "Stop it!" She looks at him over her shoulder and bites into her bottom lip. She is obviously enjoying his facial expression. He adjusts his arms for more stability and pounds into her. She screams but does not lessen the pressure. He lifts his hips higher and thrusts into her. They both slightly bob on the mattress, and he speeds up, using the momentum of the bed. She is mewling, and he feels her fingers curling in her sex.

"Come for me, zundush, please..." He does not notice when he started asking, instead of ordering, "Please, my heart, please..." She suddenly jerks her hand out, pushes her palms into the sheets and he understand she tries to rise on all four. His bloods boils up, and he shifts.

He suddenly finds himself kneeling behind his wife, on all four, his cock in her sweet pink hole, and it unhinges his mind. He grabs the buttocks, most likely bruising and hurting her, and he pushes into her, his testes slapping her with a loud obscene sound. She moans but it is an obvious encouragement, and he starts pumping into her. The copper curls swing in the air, and he is growling. He is far too gone for any coherent words. And then she shatters, screaming his name, the name of all deities and the dirtiest of swears. She is keeling, and he releases with a gruff scream. Her quivering hole is milking him, and he is groaning, new and new waves of pleasure flooding him, blind and deaf to anything but the hot white rapture and the feeling of the woman he loves.

They fall into the sheets on their side, he pulls her to his chest, crushing her, his forehead pressed to the back of her head, half choked sobs erupting out of him, and he is mumbling the words of love, gratitude, and devotion. He never confesses his love in Common Speech, such words too mundane for him, only in Khuzdul, always _"Men lananubukhs menu",_ addressing her "azyungel", "haban", "yasith", "kurdu", _my love_, _my gem_, _my wife_, _my heart_, but he realizes he is repeating again and again, "My love, my love, oh my love..." She is panting, and her slender arm flies back and lies around his waist. Somehow this additional contact with her skin makes him choke on his words, strange knot in his throat. And then she returns it up front and covers his hand on her middle. She picks it up and presses the inner side of his wrist to her lips, his arm limp and heavy. He exhales into her hair, the caress so familiar, so her. He presses his face into her locks, closes his eyes, piercing happiness and completeness flooding him.

For a few moments they are silent, busking in the afterglow, little swirls of pleasure tickling his whole body, and he nuzzles her nape. And then he reaches for covers and pulls them over both of them. He notices she is nodding off, and he kisses her ear.

"Zundush, we should take a bath..." She moans and shakes her head.

"I am perfectly content here..." Her voice is sleepy, and he chuckles. She is always immediately drowsy after her release, and he finds it endearing. Her warm body near him is relaxed, and his own lids are heavy. He shakes his head.

"You will regret all this untidiness tomorrow yourself, my heart."

"Nothing untidy… Just our love..."

Thorin is lying in his marital bed, his wife sleeping in his arms, his softened member still inside her, and he sends every possible prayer to Mahal, the Maker, the Smith of Powers. He fervently thanks him for his wife and asks for forgiveness for ever having doubted the wisdom of the Maker, assigning the small girl from Men to him, making her his One, intertwining their destinies. When there was no hope for them, when he left her in Bree, the immense, unimaginable pain tearing at his heart, wrecking his body, tormenting his mind, he would ask what crime he had committed to be tortured thusly.

He opens his eyes now and gazes at the peaceful face of his yasith. The lashes lie under her eyes, freckles peppering her nose and cheekbones, and he clenches his jaw. Even in his mind he has no words, not even well formed thoughts to express his love and his happiness. She makes him complete, light, careless, she has taken any pain he has ever felt in his life, he cannot remember the darkness and the despair in him, the angry, brutal savage he was before her. Nothing matters anymore, and everything does. The food has taste, the wine is only for joy, the sleep is free of nightmares… Noble Dwarven warriors do not cry, and Thorin pretends he does not notice his own tears… He closes his eyes and pulls the former healer from Bree to his chest even tighter, though it is hardly possible. Sleep envelops him, and he dreams of two blue eyed and dark haired boys, a small girl bobbing on his lap, and another boy, red haired, with her eyes and mischievous smile. Thorin sleeps, and his world is tranquil and harmonious.


	2. One Too Many

One thing could be said about Thorin Oakenshield. He had always been considered capable to think fast on his feet. Perhaps sometimes too quick to judge and condone his kin and too fast and furious towards his enemies, he was hard to surprise and take at unawares. And still, he froze in the doorframe of his bedroom and his jaw even might have slacked a bit when he was faced with an astonishing apparition on his marital bed. It was a gorgeous, half naked woman. And it was definitely not his wife. The guest, relaxed and somewhat provocatively stretched on his bed, half lying, half sitting, her voluptuous curves covered in a gauzy green night dress hardly reaching her knees, was as far from his wife in appearance as possible. Though also short, she was curvaceous, her skin tanned, giant dark eyes, heavy ebony strands in an intricate do, showing her long neck and round shoulders.

Thorin let his eyes roam the stranger and smirked darkly. "Have you walked into the wrong door, my lady?" She smiled to him, her lips plump and pink, and he quickly considered how to grab her better and how she would feel in his arms. Because as clearly as day he understood that the next thing he was going to do was to pick her given gorgeous body up and throw her out of his bedroom her backside first in the most humiliating way.

"She has not," his wife's voice made him jerk his eyes from the woman on the bed. He looked up and that was when his jaw definitely dropped. His demure, decorous Queen stood by the bedpost of their marital bed in a nightdress, the exact replica of the one hugging the generous bosom of the brunette on the bed, though the Queen's attire was of a slightly different tint. A confident lecherous smile was playing on her lips, and Thorin felt heat licking the back of his neck. Surely, he was wrong in his assumptions…

Both women rose, the Queen walked towards him, his eyes immediately glued to her hips, while the brunette walked around him, and without tearing his eyes off his wife, Thorin understood that their guest closed the door behind his back. The Queen stepped closer, her slanted green eyes burning, and her narrow palm lay on his chest. "Here are the rules, my King," she licked her lips, and his stare shifted onto her mouth, "We will move to my parlour. A comfortable divan has been brought there, and I do not wish another woman in my marital bed," her delicate index finger lay on his lips, "You are not to kiss our dearest guest. And nothing but your hands touch her body. You can ask but you do not order. And most importantly," she lifted a brow, and his pulse quickened, "Both our guest and I get to enjoy ourselves as fully as we desire."

Thorin noticed she did not ask for his agreement. He was already hard when the first suspicion rose in his mind as he saw his wife and her attire, but by the end of her speech his head swam from suffocating, almost painful arousal. Assertive and confident Queen Zundushinh made his body burn and mind rail. He gently kissed the little finger pressed to his mouth and nodded.

The Queen stretched her hand to him, and he let her lead him to the parlour. The brunette was already sitting on the divan and rose when they entered. She stepped closer, and he finally had a good look at her. "Have I chosen wisely, my King?" He felt a shiver run down his spine from the pure obscenity of the tone and the meaning of his wife's words.

Because she did. She had chosen a woman that he would have picked had he not been married. Striking features, dark eyes and hair, plump lips, and most importantly glorious full breasts and curvy hips. Exactly the woman Thorin of the past would have found most appetising.

While the brunette unbuckled his belt, he felt his wife's presence behind him. Her strong fingers unclasped his collar, and once the belt had hit the floor, the familiar small hands pushed his vest off his shoulders. The brunette unbuttoned his tunic, picked up the hem of it and pulled it off his body.

He felt the Queen's hot mouth pressed to his spine, between his shoulder blades, her palms stroking his shoulders, and then she slightly pushed him towards the brunette. "What is her name?" Thorin's voice was gruff.

His wife tut-tutted, "What discourtesy, my lord! Our guest is in the room, and she is not an object. Address her personally and with respect, please," the Queen's arms snaked around his waist from behind, and she started unfastening his breeches.

"What is your name?"

"Huld," her voice was low, fruity, and he lifted his hand and touched her cheek, her skin warm and radiant, amber and honey just as her voice. His trousers half open, he felt his wife continue kissing his back, her hands caressing his waist and hips above his breeches. He cupped the back of Huld's head and pulled her towards him. When her face was close to his, he felt the Queen's short nails dig into his skin.

"I remember the rules, my Queen," he chuckled. She snorted and gently bit his upper arm. Huld smiled as well and placed her palms on his chest. She treaded her fingers in his chest hair and clawed at him a bit.

"He is delectable, is he not?" He heard laughter in his wife's tone, and he cocked a brow. He was certainly not used to being appraised like a bloodstock pony. He slightly turned his head and looked at the green eyes of Queen Zundushinh. She lifted a brow in an obvious taunt and suddenly licked his shoulder.

"Indeed he is," Huld raked her nails down his chest and gently scraped his stomach. His abdomen muscles jerked, and she gave out a throaty chuckle. The women's hands met on his waist, and he saw their fingers intertwine. "And so is his Queen," the brunette murmured, and the eyes of the two women met over his shoulder. Huld smirked and unwrapped the Queen's arms from around his middle.

Thorin found himself standing in the middle of the parlour, while Huld led his wife to the divan and they sat in front of each other. Mesmerized, he watched them slowly lean towards each other, the long lashes of his wife fluttered and finally the two sets of soft lips met. He sucked the air in. Seeing the Queen kissing someone besides him was the strangest and surprisingly alluring picture. She was obviously savouring the caresses, her mouth opening slightly, and then he saw a glimpse of her pink tongue darting and sliding over the full upper lip of the brunette. Thorin's cock jerked. The women unhurriedly embraced each other, hands sliding chastely, first on the shoulders, then necks, cupping each other's faces. He saw the fingers of the brunette slide down on the Queen's collarbones, and he smirked. The pulps of her fingers slid, stroking the tender skin there, and he imagined how it felt. The delicate clavicles of his wife were among many favourites of Thorin Oakenshield. Huld tore her lips from his wife's and lowered her face to where her fingers were a moment ago. He saw her tongue slide along the delicate bone there, and the Queen dropped her head back. Her lips slightly opened, and Thorin took a big step ahead, bent down and caught her mouth.

Queen Zundushinh smiled into his mouth, and her slender arm flew up. She cupped the back of his head, and for a few moments she was enjoying the double caresses bestowed on her neck and lips. And then her hand moved to his naked shoulder, and she slightly pushed him away. He looked into her eyes, and they smiled to each other. The King stepped back, and the women embraced again, this time their movement more heated, more passionate. The Queen was the first to touch the brunette's breasts, cupping the generous weight there, her fingers brushing the nipples. Huld reciprocated, and they fondled each other's peaks for a bit. The Queen leaned in and sucked on the brunette's neck. And then she looked at her husband askew, her mouth still pressed to the glorious skin of their guest.

"I think it is time you join us, my heart," the Queen's voice was raspy and playful, and the women moved away from each other, giving room for the King to sit between them. They both knelt on the divan, and while he cupped the back of his wife's head and pulled her into a deep passionate kiss, Huld's hands stroked his shoulders, and then she pressed her hot mouth to the side of his neck. And then she slid behind him, her bosom pressed to his back through the thin material of her gown, while his wife suddenly moved away from him and stood in front of him. She deftly picked up her dress, and in one swift movement she pulled it off. His eyes roamed her naked body, pale radiant skin, small peaks, pink taut nipples, red curls between her legs, and he gently placed his palms on her waist. He pressed a kiss between her breasts, and she arched into him.

There was a movement behind him, and he heard the Queen chuckle. He lifted his eyes from her beloved body and saw Huld pass his wife the other nightgown. The scorching skin of the second naked woman pressed to his back, and he smirked. Huld's hands slid over his shoulders, fingers ran along his clavicles and then up, and rubbed his ears. She leaned in, and he felt her breath near his lobe, "Your wife told me your ears and beard are exceptionally sensitive, my lord." He felt her tongue run along his helix, and he shivered.

"What other knowledge has my Queen shared with you, Huld?" Both women chuckled in unison. The Queen lifted his chin with her index finger, and he looked into her eyes.

"We were mostly talking about my pleasure, my lord. Men are simpler to satisfy." His eyes widened. This new lecherous, demanding Queen was both intimidating and endlessly seductive. He momentarily thought that perhaps he had never desired and loved her more than at that moment. In a forceful movement he grabbed her neck and pulled her in a searing kiss. While her lips and tongue were dancing with his, he felt her stretch her arm, and with a corner of his eyes he saw her pulling Huld to climb off the divan.

Both women stood in front of him, and suddenly the Queen knelt down in front of the brunette. She pressed a kiss to Huld's flat stomach and then gently touched the dark curls at the bottom of her stomach. Thorin was frozen on his divan, eyes glued to his wife's face. She licked her lips and then her tiny index finger stroked the folds of the other woman. "I have to say our guest is in anticipation," she slowly pushed the finger into Huld, who closed her eyes and moaned. Thorin's eyes darted between the two faces. And then the Queen tilted her head and licked Huld's clit in a confident slow movement. The King could not hold back a raspy moan.

"Are you not uncomfortable, my King?" Huld's voice was low and throaty, her eyes half lidded, her body trembling from the Queen's ministrations. The King saw his wife's small hands cup Huld's magnificent perky buttocks, and then she rubbed her nose to her curls.

"Perhaps, you should undress, my husband," the Queen murmured without tearing her eyes from the other woman's center. Thorin jumped up and pulled his trousers off, keeping his eyes on the Queen. Making sure he was comfortably seated, she moved her hand between Huld's legs and splaying her fingers slightly pushed her thighs apart. Huld shifted her feet and opened up. The Queen dove in and in astoundment Thorin watched his wife vigorously lapping on another woman's sex. Huld throatily moaned, and Thorin saw her knees tremble.

"I feel rather left out, my heart," the King complained in a light tone, but his wife ignored him.

"Perhaps you can use your hand so far, my lord," the brunette's words were slightly slurred, the Queen was very thorough. But then she tore her face from Huld's body and turned to her husband. Her red lips puffed and moist, she was so delectable that Thorin had to grab the edge of the divan not to pounce on her.

She swiftly rose to her feet and smirked darkly. "Do not worry, my King, you will not be forgotten." She stepped closer and looked down at him, "I just wanted our guest to feel welcomed." She turned her back to him and sat on his lap. His cock trapped between their bodies, her firm little buttocks pressing on it, she slowly moved up and down his length, and then she spread her legs, supporting her weight on straight arms pressed into his legs. Huld knelt in front of her, and he saw over his wife's shoulder how a gorgeous brunette started licking on his wife's glistening folds. Her tongue would move up, and the Queen would arch her back, transferring the movement, rubbing her glorious backside to his girth, and then would slide down, pressing further into him. Her head dropped back, on his shoulder, and he pressed his lips to her ear, sucked her lobe into his mouth, gave it a gentle bite. His hands grabbed her breasts, and he palmed her nipples.

The King pressed one of the Queen's teats between his fingers, Huld met his eyes and gave the Queen's clit a tight swirl. They coordinated their movements. Twisting her nipple he started sucking on the Queen's neck, while Huld pushed two fingers into her quim, setting a forceful dizzying rhythm. He felt his wife's body sagging, her breathing increasingly heavier and deeper, her eyes rolling back. Suddenly she jerked and pushed away from him. Huld moved away, and the Queen tut-tutted. "You two are too good, I forgot the point of today's evening." She rose and affectionately stroke Huld's hair, the other woman still kneeling on the floor.

"Which is what exactly?" Thorin asked, enticed by his wife's burning eyes. She smirked, one corner of her perpetually curled up lips lifted, and knelt near his feet as well. Her small strong palms stroked his inner thighs, and then her fingers encircled his base. She slightly moved aside, and Huld leaned in. Before Thorin had a moment to realize what was happening the brunette's lips closed around his head, and she gave him a tight forceful suck. Having guided him into another woman's mouth the Queen let him go and cupped his testes. Her tiny fingers moved, she knew exactly how to massage him best. He groaned, and his hand flew up. He pushed his fingers into his wife's springy curls. He pulled her hair back making her look into his eyes. She was smiling, while the second woman was bobbing her head up and down his length. The Queen's second hand lay on the back of her head, she grabbed a handful of dark curls and slowed Huld's movements.

"Slowly and deeply, my friend. At least at the beginning." Huld complied, switching to Thorin's favourite proceedings. He closed his eyes and leaned back on his straight arms. For a second he felt his cock cool in the air, and then a pair of lips locked around it again. Without opening his eyes he recognised his wife's mouth.

Her tongue ran around the ridge of his head, in an unhurried caress, and he peeked. Her eyes were closed, she often told him she especially enjoyed such acts. And then she moaned, and the vibration transferred into his member. Huld, stroking her back with one hand, slid another one between her legs from behind and was gently caressing her folds. Her long strong fingers dipped in and out of the Queen who arched her back.

"I am afraid the Queen's juices are dripping on the priceless carpet," Huld pressed her lips to the Queen's shoulder blades. "No wonder, there is such abundance to enjoy." The Queen straightened up releasing him and chuckled.

"I have nothing to compare it with, I am afraid, but I would assume there are few to match," she pressed a kiss to her husband's chest, and he smiled into her eyes.

"I do have some knowledge, and I envy my Queen," murmured Huld, and her hands suddenly cupped the Queen's face. She sharply pulled her to herself, and Thorin saw her tongue dive deeply into the Queen's mouth. Their bodies intertwined, his knee pressed between their warm stomachs, and he pushed his hands into red and black hair. His wife blindly pushed her hand down and stroked his member, while her second hand cupped between Huld's legs. The brunette returned the attention. For a while they moved in silence, the women moving their hands, Huld greedily kissing the Queen, Thorin sucking on his wife's neck, familiar intoxicating taste flooding his senses.

The Queen once again shifted first. Releasing Huld she turned to her husband and pushed his knees wider apart. The women smiled to each other and dove down together. Two sets of lips and two hot deft tongues slid up and down Thorin's cock, and he growled. He looked down, and his member jerked from the view of his wife and another woman sucking on the sides of his cock, their tongues meeting, Huld then sliding closer to the root while the very tip of the Queen's tongue was caressing the small entrance in his head. Neither was using their hands, their movements surprisingly coordinated. He lifted his eyes and could not suppress a moan from the view of their hands pumping between each other's legs.

"I need it deep… One of you has to take it in deep..." Both women stopped, and Thorin exhaled sharply. The Queen tapped his tip with her finger, and he clenched her jaw.

"You do not have much power in this situation, my lord. Perhaps you should learn to ask politely," she licked her lips. "And be more specific. Which one should take your cock into her throat?"

Thorin gulped. "Please, my heart…" She nodded and questioningly lifted her brow. "Perhaps, Huld..." The Queen let the brunette take her position, while she herself got up and sat near him on the divan. He gladly pulled her to him, and their mouths met.

His head swam from the feeling of two wet mouths caressing him, the endlessly delicious taste of his wife, her small hot palms stroking his face, the beard, the cheekbones. He cupped her breast and played with her nipples. She moaned into his mouth, and suddenly he dropped his head back and laughed out loudly.

The Queen lifted her brows, and he gently placed his hand at the back of Huld's head. "Huld, please, stop..." The brunette released him and lifted her eyes at him. He could not stop chuckling, surprised by the strange sensation he found in himself.

"Is something not to your liking, my lord? Should we change positions?" The Queen's voice was surprised and almost apprehensive. She was obviously aroused and slightly impatient. The King cupped his wife's face and quickly kissed the corner of her lips.

"Everything is wonderful, my heart. But perhaps Huld could go," without looking at the brunette Thorin smiled to his wife. "As wonderful as such present was," he kissed her jaw, her eyes wide open and stunned, "You are all I need." The Queen wrapped her slender arms around his neck, and he leaned in to kiss her. Her fingers treaded into his hair, and half consciously he noticed the door open and close.

He pushed his wife down on the divan, and she spread her legs. He lifted his hips, and his tip brushed her folds. She moaned and murmured something. "What is it, my heart?"

"I love you, my King," her eyes were warm, laughing and still slightly disbelieving, and he pushed into her.

"And I you."

And Thorin Oakenshield made love to his wife, gentle and deep, her body burning in his hands, arching into him, her soft sighs and moans more eloquent than any words of love, her palms sliding on his skin. His lips caressed her neck and her breasts, their love and tenderness flooding and filling them, their release united and concurrent. He pressed his forehead to hers and closed his eyes. That was indeed a surprise to him that he had halted the act that he had always been so fond of, but he thought with a smile on his lips that nothing had been the same since a small red haired healer sauntered into his life. Perhaps one woman was indeed enough. It just had to be the right one.


	3. Another Thorin's Morning After

**A/N: More fluff than smut. But I felt sentimental :) Also, my lovelies, remember how it all started with "Thorin's Morning After"? Good old days... Ahhhh... :)**

**Another Thorin's Morning After **

Half awake, Thorin stirs and stretches his arm to his right. The other side of the bed is empty, and he opens his eyes. The sheets are cool, so she left a while ago. He rolls on his stomach and buries his nose in her pillow. The faint smell of what he now knows is lilac tickles his senses, and he smiles into the soft fabric. At that moment something falls on the floor in the next room with a loud jangle. The servants must be preparing a bath. Thorin does not want to start his morning yet, and he nests into the covers, light and soft, nuzzling the sheets, still bearing the fragrance of her skin.

There is a determined knock at the door of the adjoining parlour, and Thorin's mood immediately drops. There is only one person allowed to knock at that door. He rolls off the bed and pulls on his trousers. He searches for his shirt, but it seems nowhere to be found. There is a corner of some garment sticking out from under the bed, and Thorin pulls. It is her tunic, and he straightens dangling it on his finger. For an instant a warm familiar feeling that he has no name for floods his chest. Even in the solitude of his bedchambers he feels embarrassed to admit his mawkishness, but then he chuckles. There is no shame in being in love with one's wife. He presses the tunic to his cheek and inhales the same sweet smell.

Then he carefully places the tunic on the bed and continues searching for his. It turns up on the window sill, and he lets himself indulge in pleasant memories for a moment. Her legs crossed behind his back, little fingers pulling his tunic up, short nails scraping his skin, treacherously tickling his ribs, her white teeth worrying the plump bottom lip impishly… The shirt is off, she catches his mouth, and the tunic is taking to the air in a flamboyant wide gesture of her slender arm.

He pulls it on and opens the door. Fili is bubbling with his usual energy, but an uncharacteristic wrinkle is laid between his brows. He is holding a pile of papers and rolls of parchment, and Thorin groans internally. "It is beyond early, Fili. I have not partaken my breakfast yet," Thorin's voice is peevish. Fili looks at him in confusion. He probably stayed up all night.

"I have the forges schematics, Uncle..." Fili pushes the papers towards the King, and the latter sighs and gestures him to proceed to the dining chambers.

He is closing the door behind him and notices something green on the floor. He bends and picks up a ribbon. He remembered pulling it out of her hair last night, and without thinking he twirls it around his index finger. It is silky, and he continues playing with it, following his sister-son.

Fili is talking, gesticulating, and Thorin is listening absent-mindedly. She was upset with him last night, and he remembers her pensive tense shoulders, while sitting in front of her vanity she was brushing her copper hair. To think of it, the Dwarf mumbling into his left ear was exactly the reason of his wife's displeasure. Thorin cannot stand even the slightest umbrage for his wife.

They enter the dining hall, and both of them sit at the long wooden table. The breakfast is served, and Thorin lifts a lid from a large platter. Several types of cheese are arranged on it, with a pile of freshly baked fragrant bread in the center. Another platter contains meats, pickled eggs, and vegetables, and he picks up a slice of lamb. Fili is still droning at the background, and Thorin halts him raising his hand.

He remembers his wife's soft tone last night, her hand slowly moving the brush down the flaming waves, "My King, I am concerned for your older sister-son..."

"And I am concerned that you are still not in bed, my Queen." She slightly turned on her chair and gave his an appraising look over her shoulder. It was rather haughty, and he chuckled.

She pointed at his raging erection with her brush, "If you were planning to shock me with the view of your bare body, my lord, you should have chosen a different position to display yourself. I could clearly see your preparations in the mirror."

"So you were looking, my Queen." She snorted and turned back to her vanity.

"Perhaps just a little..." She picked up a comb now, and he groaned.

"You are still not in bed, my heart..."

"I have been there twice already, my King, I have to tend to some of my needs now."

"Come to bed, and I will tend to them."

She tut-tutted, "If only you were talking about assisting me with my hair..."

"But I am," he shifted closer and stretched an open hand to her. "Give me the comb, kurdu." She complied and moved onto the bed, turning her back to him. He gently ran the comb through her locks a few times, and only them he allowed himself a small indulgence. He pressed his lips to her shoulder and then, since self-control had never been included in the sum of his virtues, he slid his hand around her middle and covered her breast.

"Behave yourself, my lord." Her tone was stern, and she battered his hand away.

Thorin, not used to being refused such pleasures, kissed her shoulder again, accepting that she was indeed vexed. "What about Fili, zundush?" She turned around, and his eyes fell on her breasts. She was bare head to toe.

"Thorin," her voice was reproachful, and she lifted his chin with her tiny index finger, making him look into her eyes. He did, but Mahal, he was distracted. She sighed and pushed him back into the sheets. They were rumpled from their previous two bouts, he especially liked the second one, her graceful ankles on his shoulders, loud screams of pleasure falling from her lips, her strong fingers kneading her breasts. And now she straddled him, and his member slid in her like Orcrist in its sheath. She forcefully clawed his chest, and he growled. "But then we will talk about Fili, will we not, my lord?"

He nodded, hardly understanding what she said, his thoughts jumbled as she was already clenching him inside, her hips moving following that glorious lemniscate that always turned him in a trembling dimwit. She dug her nails into his pectoral muscles, and he grabbed her delicious buttocks. She was moving faster, her strong thighs squeezing him, her back arched, salacious moans loud and throaty, her hands flying to her orange mane, and she was chanting his name. She is commanding, mesmerizing, mind blowing, purposeful, her quim caressing him and this night she was decisively aiming for her own release, and then she bent backward, and her hot palm cupped his testes. She bent further, supporting her weight on her other arm, her flexibility yet another treasure in this marriage, her hips pumping him, bending his cock backwards with the sweetest of pressures, and he lifted his head and was presented with the view of his wife's folds sliding up and down his member, glistening with her juices. And that was his undoing. He came with a roar, thrashing underneath her, and she climaxed as well, grinding her pelvis to his, all soft mewling sounds and satisfied moans.

"Uncle?" Thorin realizes he is frozen with a piece of cheese dangling from his fork, and he shifts his eyes at Fili. To cover his distractedness the King stuffs the cheese in his mouth, but once he starts chewing he is even more distracted than by his indecent thoughts of a few instants ago. The cheese is exceptional. He is staring at the platter. He just cannot help it.

"What is this cheese?" He asks a servant refreshing his mug.

"It is the special kind the Queen orders from Ithilien, she specifically sent three boats for it. It is supposedly the best in the Eastern Gondor." The servant's voice is laced with pride, the household adores their Queen. In a few short moons after the wedding she turned each servant and guard in her staunch supporter and a loyal zealot. They would wound, maim and kill for her without a minuscule of a doubt.

The King puts down his fork, and twirling the green ribbon in his hands he turns to his nephew. "Fili, would you like to pass the overseeing of forges restoration to Gloin and take charge of trade and the guard accompanying the merchant companies?" Fili freezes with his mug pressed to his lips. Thorin does not require his answer, he can see it in his widening, suddenly brilliant, exuberant eyes. Thorin shakes his head and chuckles.

To his own shame he had not given it much thought. He gave Fili the hardest of the tasks the current state of affairs called for, and assumed his sister-son would consider it an honour. He remembers his wife's little hand stroking his chest last night, delicate fingers treading through his chesthair, and she is nuzzling his skin. It is cooling after their fourth round, and he is running his fingers up and down her spine. "Do you think, my lord, that Fili might be slightly happier if you put him in charge of the growing trade contacts of Erebor?.. All those dangerous travels, the guards required for it, the weaponry… The excitement of the road, the news and turmoils of the life of merchants..." She yawns. He hums nonchalantly. She does not insist, she curls into him, and he feels her warm breath on his side. He intertwines his fingers with her graceful little digits and smirks. She is asleep already, and he is looking at the canopy above their bed and thanks Mahal for bestowing him with such wife.

After breakfast with Fili who is so elated by the end of it that he can hardly sit still on his chair, Thorin returns to his bedchambers and passes into the room with the bath. He quickly shreds his tunic and trousers and sinks into the hot water already prepared for him. An unfamiliar fragrance fills his nose, his muscles relaxing, his joints suddenly forgetting the old injuries, and he closes his eyes in the bliss. The knee that is always bothering him, bearing the injury from the Battle of the Five Armies, can only be pacified by her small strong hands and some balms she keeps in her study. She rubs them it, humming under her nose, and he is staring at her gentle jawline and a little pink ear.

A servant knocks at the door, and Thorin allows him entrance. "Is there something new with the bath?" He asks in a lazy tone, without opening his eyes.

"The merchants from Mirkwood delivered some new herbs by the Queen's request."

To Thorin's slight apprehension there is a constant exchange of letters between his wife and the cursed Elvenking. At the moment though he appreciates their sharing of knowledge of herbal medicine. The knee is at peace, and he shifts his shoulders, noting the pleasant looseness of muscles. He smirks and muses that he still should complain in the evening. She starts fussing around him, pulling out corks from vials, fragrant oils rubbed between her palms, and then the hands start kneading his muscles, eventually attending to every inch of his body. The tips of her fingers trace his scars, and it is surprisingly easy to tell her of the wounds. She is endlessly sober and reasonable, listening quietly, and every story he tells becomes one less nightmare, another of them never returning again. Soon enough he stopped seeing the death of his brother and his Grandfather in his dreams, no more waking up with a jerk, his hands grasping the sheets, teeth clenched, his throat painfully dry. These days he sees Frerin and King Thror alive and smiling, Frerin sometimes just a boy, like that one day when they put a frog in Dis' shoe, or when they were punished for sneaking into an armoury.

Something is bothering him, not allowing to relax fully in his bath, and he searches his mind. It is the Elvenking... and the letters. A pile of them is stacked on the corner of her desk, the seal of the abdominal Elven bastard taunting him, but they are open, sometimes not even folded, and Thorin berates himself for unreasonable jealousy. The two Kingdoms have a mutual goal, the same territory to look after, the trade growing exponentially, and besides once he gives himself a moment to think of it, he does not doubt his wife. He is no fool and understands her well.

He is also a Dwarf, and there are things he just cannot give her. As content and satisfied she claims to be in her life in Erebor, he understands she has sacrificed a lot for her position as his wife and the Queen. Living in a mountain, surrounded by stone and fire, away from her trees and grasses... He admires her calm and determined efforts to preserve her nature and interests, and simultaneous adjustment to her new role. The books flooding her study, and even her side of their bedchamber, the dried herbs in a room adjoint to her parlour, regular visits to the Erebor infirmary, he can hardly presume how she finds time for all her responsibilities, considering the active role she quickly started playing in governing the life of Erebor. As much as he is irked by her correspondence with King Thranduil, it plays the crucial role in the relations between the two Kingdoms. And if she requires conversing with the pale, pointy eared wimp about herbal essences to feel more comfortable in her new life, Thorin can swallow his pride and possessiveness. He is prepared to do much more to ensure not a slightest doubt in her choice comes to the red head of his yasith.

The green ribbon is still in his hand, and he lifts it to his eyes. He loves her hair, a cascade of mad orange curls. Scattered on the pillow, falling like a curtain around his head when she is straddling him and lowers her lips to his, heavy decorous braids through the day… He thinks of the morning after their wedding night, when reposing in bed they led quiet conversation, more for the sake of hearing another's voice than actually discussing anything, and absent-mindedly he picked up a few heavy silky strands. His fingers moved in mindless sequence, braiding the copper locks on the side of her face, and he realized that she had stilled and quieted and was attentively looking at him. She might not have understood the meaning behind his action, but her intuition allowed her understand the intimacy of the gesture. That morning he allowed her wash his hair for the first time. Her strong finger ran through his strands, careful and thorough, her face serious and concentrated, and the smell of some herbs and flowers filled his nose. He leaned at the rolled up towel on the side of a tub and closed his eyes. There was a determined rightfulness in what was transpiring, and both of them were quiet, almost afraid to scare off the perfection of the moment.

Thorin slides under water, allowing the heat and the essences seep into his hair, and then he straightens up, spitting the sweet fragrant water like a pony, and shakes his head. Baths are boring without a small body sleek and hot under his hands, and a pair of strong hands running through his strands. He quickly finishes washing and goes to the dressing room.

Everything is organized, sorted out, his attires attended to, clean and pressed, and he chuckles. Her voice is ringing in his head, while he remembers her fingers buttoning up his doublet. "I am certain you would not want King Thranduil to see you in disarray, my lord."

The cursed Elvenking was visiting Erebor for the first time after the fallout with his grandfather. Thorin grabbed her around the waist and gave her buttock a firm squeeze. "Maybe I want him to feel jealous. He would not be in disarray after a thorough tumble with his wife in a closet." She snorted but then frowned.

"Be considerate, my King. He has been a widower for so many decades, but I am certain the pain is still fresh in his memory. He is an Elf after all." Thorin was gently biting on her ear, and his mouth halted on the little burning lobe.

"To be honest I have never considered it..." The thought of suddenly feeling empathy towards the Elf was preposterous, but Thorin could not help it. Losing one's wife, the one you fathered a child with, the queen of your people, must have been devastating, perhaps almost impossible to bear. He screwed his eyes at his Queen busy with the clasp on his belt, and a piercing emotion flooded him. Some jumbled fears and tenderness mixed in his mind, and he pulled her into him, tightly embracing her, she squeaked but immediately relaxed into his body. She pressed her temple to his clavicles, and he felt her strong palm rub his upper arm. He was grateful, he obviously needed a moment to recover from sudden sentimentality, and she was still, allowing him his dignity.

He picks up a tunic and pulls it over his head. The clasp on a belt clicks, and he is ready to leave the room, endless list of matters to attend waiting for him. And then a sudden childishness comes over him, and he dashes across the room, into his bedroom and jumps on his bed. He plops on it flat, on his back, closes his eyes, arms stretched like bird's wings, and he laughs. It is a strange mood, but he allows himself a moment of unrestrained freedom. He has been Thorin Oakenshield all his life, stern, severe, the King, the Heir of Durin, the leader of an exiled people, the uncle and the guardian, and for once he just wants to let it go. He does not know what it is that he is feeling and wanting at the moment, but somehow the soft fragrant sheets are the place where he feels most himself. He slides his palms up and down the sheets, and his fingers catch on her tunic he placed on the bed earlier. He lifts it above his face and swings it from side to side. In the sheets he is just a husband, and it is surprisingly enough.

The door creaks, and he sharply turns his head. There is a flash of green velvet and orange curls in the air, and she jumps at him, her hands pressed on his upper arms, pinning him to the bed, and the greedy hot mouth is on his. He moans into her scorching demanding kiss, and she straightens up, eyes laughing and red lips smiling. "I have but a moment , my lord, but I thought I should remind you that you actually have a wife. In case you have forgotten."

He is staring at her, as if seeing her at the first time, in all her glory, curls run away from her do, slanted eyes loving and brilliant, and he is painfully in love. She pecks his lips couple more times and jumps off him. He hears quick pitter-patter of her tiny feet on the floor, and the door bangs closed. He is lying on his bed, small smile playing on his lips, surrounded by the warmth and peace of his marital life. Thorin does not want to conclude his morning just yet.

**A/N: That is the last of the fics I squirreled over my trip to Muzzuh Rushuh. So what should I do now? Somehow Alfirin is my girl these days :) And science officer Leary on USS Enterprise :)**


	4. Missing the King

**A/N: I got bored on a long bus ride. Yep, pretty much just a wee bit of mindless smut. I feel slightly ashamed of myself, but a girl does need to vent, right? :)**

The heavy Erebor Gates close behind the small company of Dwarves, their ponies stammering, white foam covering their sides, the garments on the riders dirty and drenched. Thorin jumped off his pony and patted the tired animal on the neck. Dwalin slid off his saddle on the ground and grunted. Thorin heard him swear under his breath. Two weeks of patrolling the lands, killing Orcs, sleeping on the hard ground, he felt they were too old for such expeditions. He shoved the reigns in the hands of a squire quickly running up to him, when the doors on the side of the gates burst open. He lifted his eyes and smiled for the first time in a fortnight.

His Queen rushed through the courtyard, her tiny feet swiftly pitter-pattering on the wet stone, and her small body slammed into him. She acted much freer that she normally would, but he assumed two weeks were too long for her as well. He pressed his forehead to hers, and her hands slipped into his hair.

Grime and dust had never bothered him before, cleanness an unrealistic luxury for one living on the road, but his wife established rather prescriptive customs of bath taking in his life now, and he easily submitted. Every morning a bath would be waiting for him, water fragrant from herbs and oils, his clothes always washed and pressed, his hair and nails tended to. The last two weeks he did not have a chance to shave, and suddenly he realized that he was smearing dirt over her face. She pressed closer to him and nuzzled his jawline. Her pale blue dress was increasingly wetter under the drizzling rain, while her skirts were quite obviously covered in muck where her legs were pressed to his.

"Azyungel, I am muddy from the road, and..." He had no chance to continue, her mouth suddenly pressed to his greedily, and he quickly forgot what he was to say. His hands tightened around her waist, and she moaned into his mouth. And then she remembered herself and stepped away.

He grabbed her hand and strode towards the entrance to the passage, blatantly ignoring the other Dwarves in the yard, who were obviously trying to look anywhere but at their royal couple behaving endlessly inappropriately.

Thorin ran up the stairs, leaving dirty footprints behind him, shedding his coat and brigandine of the way. He suddenly stopped in the middle of a staircase and pulled his wife flush to his body. She whimpered, and he caught her mouth. Standing two steps higher, he had to bend down, and he wrapped his arm around her ribs. He jerked her towards him, and she moaned. Staying in the frequented passage was preposterous, but he could not move. He placed her at the same level with him and then pushed her into the wall. She seemed unconcerned with their unfitting location, and suddenly jumped up, and her legs went around his waist.

"Please, my lord, I am burning..." Her voice raspy and demanding made his already turgid cock jerk. He ground his hips into her center, and she bit his ear. He could swear he heard sand screech on her teeth, but yet again she seemed indifferent to his state of dirtiness. And that would be the woman who would check for dust on every windowsill in their chambers and made sure he wore a clean tunic every morning!

He stepped back, and she slid on the floor ungracefully. He rushed up the stairs again, dragging her behind him, and finally pushed her into their chambers. While he turned away to lock the door behind him, she was apparently very busy, since when he finally looked at her, the dress was pooling at her feet, gauzy undergarment hiding nothing of her delicious slender body. Her peaks taut and dark pink, the bright orange curls between her legs, her chest heaving, she stepped out of the dress and stretched her hands to him.

Feeling suddenly dizzy, he balled his fists. "Stop… Do not come closer..." He realized he was snarling, but he seemed to be unable to unclench his jaws. She froze, her eyes wide and shiny. "I need an instant… I will not be able to be gentle..." His erection was painful, his heart booming , blood roaring in his ears. He would certainly hurt her, he would… She was so gentle, fragile, he would not be able to control himself…

"Thorin, I do not wish you to be gentle…" She licked her lips and lifted a brow. He growled, she did not understand.

"I could harm you… I do not want to..." He took a sharp breath in. "Just do not move, keep your hands down..."

Something must have showed on his face, since she halted and actually lowered her arms. They hung along her sides, and he exhaled. He jerked his waistcoat off and hastily pulled off the doublet and the tunic. Her eyes roamed his bare chest, and he saw her throat move.

"Close your eyes, yasith..." Her brows hiked up, but then she complied. His hands shaking, he shedded the boots, armour legwear and his trousers. His breeches slid down, and he hissed from the fabric brushing on his erection. After two weeks of unsatisfied craving for her body and cursed erection every morning, he was oversensitive. Freed from his garments, his cock sprang up, and Thorin welcomed cool air on the overheated skin.

His wife stood in front of him, her breasts rising from her shallow breathes, and he stepped closer. He did not dare kissing her, she would reciprocate, and he would push her on the floor, spread her legs and take her rudely and forcefully… He berated himself. As if he needed additional stimulation, he was no concupiscent youngling, he did not need to indulge in fantasies… He needed to slow down. She was small, narrow, he was not careful before. Several times she bled when he would lose control over his urges. She never blamed him, but he could not forgive himself. Her suffering was unbearable for him, he spent sleepless nights, hating himself after those incidents.

He stepped closer and pulled her into him, hardly controlling himself. She did not open her eyes, remaining still, but not rigid, her body softly molding into his. He pressed a kiss on her neck, and she tilted her head. He moved lower, on her throat, the muscle between the neck and the shoulder. His senses caught her usual sweet clean smell, lilac and her soap, and he pushed his nose behind her burning ear. He felt her breathing hitch, and it spurred him. His teeth sank into her shoulder, and she gasped. He closed his eyes, trying to restrain himself, words of apology ready to slip off his lips, but he realized she did not move, her eyes still closed, her arms hanging along her body passively.

He took a few deep breaths and picked up her hand. He led her to a wide arm chair, her following his blindly, and he sat down positioning her between his knees. He bent down, and his fingers encircled her graceful ankle. "The shoes..." She slightly lifted her foot, then another, helping him to take the leather slippers off.

Her stomach was in front of him, and he pressed an open mouthed kiss to it through the thin gauzy material. She remained silent, but he felt the muscles on her abdomen jerk. His hands cupped her buttocks, and he continues caressing her with his mouth. And then again, his passion unbridling, he bit into her hipbone. The fabric softened the assault but he could immediately see a bruise forming on her pale skin. He lifted his eyes and looked at her face.

The red lips were half open, moist, features clouded, she was frowning. Was she angry with him? The suspicion cooled him down a bit, and he pressed his cheek to her stomach. "Forgive me..." He rasped out and felt her hand gently stroke his hair.

"For what?" Her voice was indecent and coarse as well. "I am not displeased… I have yearned for you too." She opened her eyes, and he saw them dark and mad. She licked her lips, "Please, my King..."

He grabbed her around her waist and forcefully turned her around. She allowed it, and he growled when presented with the view of her small round buttocks. He hiked up her skirt and jerked the drawers down. They fell and remained around her ankles. Keeping the skirt bunched up with one hand, he pushed the other between her legs and cupped her sex from behind. She cried out, and he pulled her towards him. Skipping kisses, he bit into the firm pink flesh and she screamed again. It was not enough. He moved his face to the other side, scraping her with his beard, and sank his teeth mirroring the first bite. She jerked and tried to move away from him.

He wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her down. Her ankles constrained by her drawers, she swayed and had no other way but to fall seated on his lap. She groaned, and picking her up, his fingers digging into her waist, he lifted her again, just enough to position her above his member.

The head pushed into her, and she hissed. She was tight for him any other time, but after two weeks of his absence she would have had to be prepared, stretched, he should have caressed her with his tongue and fingers first… He would castigate himself later.

She moaned and it was more of discomfort than pleasure. He groaned and pressed his face to her nape. He felt momentarily remorseful, he hardly said a word to her since he arrived. He placed a kiss on her skin, planning to ask for forgiveness again, but her walls clenched around him. He moaned and thrusted his hips up. She squealed and pressed her palms into his thighs. He abruptly thought that perhaps she was trying to slide off him, but his consciousness slipped, lust overcoming him. He grasped his large palms around her waist and started bobbing her, filling her up, pushing into her all the way up.

Her body lost its rigidness, she sagged, and her head fell back and on his shoulder. She was breathing in sharp loud gasps, her eyes rolling back, her mouth half open. The copper hair escaped a do and scattered on his chest. He growled and thrusted into her again and again.

And suddenly her fingers curled up on his thighs, and her nails dug into his muscles. Her back arched and she climaxed, violent shudders running through her. He should have slowed down, letting her ride the waves of her release, but he was so close himself… He wrapped one arm around her, pushed another one under her buttock, and spread his knees wider. She sank on him taking him in even deeper, and a weak whine escaped her lips. He lifted her up, only his head remaining between her folds, and then he jammed her down onto his length. She screamed shriekily, and he spilled into her. He kept on pressing her down, one of his hand on her shoulder now, spurts of his semen hitting her walls again and again, his cock jerking inside her.

She started keeling ahead, and he pulled her into himself. His head was swimming, the world around him blurred, and he felt almost nauseated. Perhaps he needed water. And then he thought of the woman in his arms. He shook his head, but before the first clear thought formed in his mind, he heard her voice, hoarse from screaming and the overall strain she put on it, "Do not dare feeling guilty… It was endlessly pleasurable..."

He frowned. She sat up straighter, still shaking, and dropped her head on his shoulder. He could see one green eye, and she definitely looked sated and in no way upset. "I have missed you, my King… Slow tender loving would not have quenched the thirst I had had for you..."

The meaning of her words reached his dazed mind, and he hiked up his brows. "I have not taken a bath..."

She chuckled. "I would not have given you any time for such postponement, my lord." She stirred and started rising. He hissed when his softened member slid out of her. She stood up and turned to face him. Her eyes brilliant and gleeful, she stretched lifting her arms above her head and purred, "The two weeks were a torture, my lord..."

He was staring at her in disbelief. Her undertunic rumpled, stains of their juices mixed on it, dirt and grime obviously smeared over it, her hair in disarray, she looked endlessly happy and satisfied. She leaned in and quickly kissed the corner of his lips. "I will see to the bath, my King..." She turned around and left towards their bedchambers. He stared at her leaving figure when he felt a wave of heat lick at the back of his neck. Through the thin fabric of her undertunic he saw two angry marks on her buttocks. Purple growing around them, he could not tear his eyes off two clear teeth marks he left on the pale skin of his wife.

A few minutes of sitting alone in the parlour, his naked backside on an uncomfortable chair and no strength or desire to move, he heard her opening the door into the bath chambers. "The bath is ready, my lord," her voice rang, and his member rejoiced. The tone was so suggestive that only an imbecile would misinterpret the invitation. He jumped on his feet, swayed from sudden ringing in his head, and rushed to her.

He did need to wash. And perhaps he still felt he needed to do some groveling. Perhaps he could pleasure her in a few of her favourite ways to certainly ensure she did not feel offended. Or perhaps, just because he loved seeing her collapsing in an unrestrained rapture while his fingers were buried in her down to his knuckles, his mouth sucking on her delectable small breasts. Perhaps, the second reason was closer to the truth.


	5. Hers Alone

**A/N: Smut, smut, baby, smut! :) Please, sing copying Vanilla Ice's intonation :D**

**The idea came when rereading RagdollPrincess's "_What the Future Brings_." Seriously, Thorin2 is as hot as... ahem... as a Thorin can be :) Have you read the description of the threesome in her story?! My oh my, hot!**

Thorin comes with a low groan, his hand buried in the curly mop of his wife, her head rhythmically moving between his legs. Her small hot mouth is milking his release, ickle strong hands stroking his thighs, and he feels her tongue swirl around his cock's head, licking the seed off. He lets go of her locks and falls back on the bed. Something cracks in his back, and he hears the Queen snort.

"Should you lie down next time, my lord? Does sitting put too much strain on your spine?" He guffaws.

"Insolent woman..." She kisses his inner thigh and gets up from her knees.

"And you love it," she picks up the pillow she was kneeling on in front of the bed and hurls it into his head. It hits him to the face, and only a moment after he weakly waves his arm in the air as if in a late attempt to batter the pillow away. It is obviously done to entertain her. The jest elicits another snort out of her, and she leaves for the bathchambers.

Thorin is staring at the canopy above the bed, absent-minded listening to clanking and water pouring in the other room. His thoughts start to stray towards the matters to attend the next day, when she returns, a dogwood twig in her hands. She is holding a few leaves of mint and black currant. His eyes run over the robe she threw over her shoulders, the belt tied loosely, the hollow between her small breasts peeking out.

"Are you readying for bed already, my Queen?" She hikes up a brow.

"Are you not done with me, my lord?" She makes a sarcastic face, but the corners of her red, curved up lips twitch. He silently stretches his hand to her, and she moves on the bed, the teeth brushing twig carelessly thrown on the bedside table. He pulls her to him, positioning her on his hips. She chuckles and catches his mouth shortly. Her breath smells of mint. "And I would assume four times would be enough even for you, my lord." She brushes a mint leaf on the tip of his nose, and he catches it with his mouth. Her lips slide on his jaw, and she is kissing it, while he is chewing the fragrant leaf. He tilts his head, her mouth sliding on his throat. She trails the lower line of his beard with the tip of her tongue. She helped him shave and trim it this morning, straddling him, a blade in her deft fingers, foam on her small palms. They ended up on the floor, suds smeared all over their bodies, her legs tight around his waist, her whole body shifting on the floor from his forceful thrusts.

His fingers pick up the ends of her belt, and he whispers into her ear, "The last two do not count, my Queen. As much as I appreciate your talented mouth, nothing compares to your tight hot quim, my heart." He falls back to bed, her robe open, and his eyes roam her perked up teats. He puts his arms behind his head and smirks. He loves taunting her, it produces the most delicious of results. Giving her commands and treating her as if he is entitled to her working really, really hard in the bedroom is his favourite teasing ploy. Since it is so different from his usual activeness in their marital loving, she makes him pay for it, both of them endlessly enjoying this game.

She shakes her head and pushes the robe off her shoulders. It is thrown on the floor, the leaves following it, as well as the comb from the Queen's hair. The curls splay on her shoulders, covering her peaks and run along her narrow back. She is growing her strange flaming hair out for him, it reaches her waist already.

"Bare your breasts for me, my Queen." She moves the heavy strands over her shoulders and rises slightly. He is already erect, her hot folds pressing at him left him turgid and moist. She helps herself with her hand, and his member slides into her. She drops the head back and sighs. Her hips start moving, a slow mesmerizing rhythm, her small body arching, additional twist added to the movement of her pelvis. She slightly shifts, and he realizes she is exploiting the curve of his member. Since it is slightly bent towards his left shoulder, she keels on her left, making his head rub on her walls harder. He really appreciates her inventiveness.

"Tell me, my lord..." Her voice is lazy, eyes closed, her fingers drawing unhurried patterns on her own thighs.

"Anything, my lady… Move your hands higher, my heart…" A small smile tugs at her lips, she splays her fingers on her stomach, draws intricate patterns and slides them higher, onto her ribs.

"Tell me what it is like to share a woman with another Dwarf." He has to give her justice. Her hips do not stutter for an instant while she voices her question. His eyes at the same time widen, and he is momentarily distracted from the sweet fire she awakes in his loins. She opens her eyes and gives him a blissful smile. "You do enjoy such act, do you not, my lord?"

Jealousy rises in him, and he anticipates it. But what he is not ready for is its overwhelming, burning ferocity. "Would that be something you would enjoy, my Queen?" He intends to control his voice and hide the raspiness and rage in it. He fails.

She chuckles. "Maiar forbid, of course not. A thought of another man's hands on me is repugnant." She tilts her head, studying his face. He feels the rage retreat. And then he guffaws. His little Queen has played him. He pulls his hands from under his head and sits up. His arms go around her, palms stroke her shoulder blades, and she purrs from his attention. He pushes his hands into her hair, her back supported on his forearms, and he leans her back. She relaxes in his arms, her legs go around his waist, and she strokes his face with the tips of her fingers. They start moving together, keeping the initial slow rhythm, enjoying the deep gradual sliding of his member in her center.

He pulls her into him and catches her mouth. She opens her lips, his tongue sliding inside, running along her even teeth, brushing against hers, and she sucks on his bottom lip. Then she gently bites into it and suddenly grabs handfuls of his hair. She pulls his head back and attacks his neck. Her teeth audibly scrape on the beard, and he rumbles. Her inner walls clench, and she pushes him back on the bed. She shift her knees, preparing to get more momentum, and then her nails dig into his pectoral muscles. He growls.

"You have not answered my question, my King." She punctuates the respectful moniker with a tiny jump, his cock clenched inside her, flesh slapping on flesh, and it sends a jolt of pleasure through his body.

"What would you like to know, my lady?" He smirks, and she jumps again. She is very small, and she is indeed riding him. The bed rocks under his heavy body, adding another dimension into his pleasure. His Queen also has very strong shapely legs, and she is in control of rocking at the moment.

"All of it. Does it give you more pleasure? Would not sharing a partner take some of it away? Considering how possessive you are, my King, I do not see how you," she sinks on him exceptionally deep, and he groans, his hands flying to her hips, "would be fond of such act."

He strokes her smooth skin, his thumbs brush her delicate hipbones, pondering his answer. She stills, and he cocks a brow. She mimics the gesture. The message is quite clear. Movement for words. Thorin chuckles.

"The fact that a woman is shared..." She twists her pelvis, and he chokes on his words, "She becomes less of a person, more of a vessel of carnal pleasure. You share pleasure with another man, it is bonding..."

"Have you shared women with your sister sons?"

"Many times," he smirks, suddenly remembering a few most opulent times, and her small hand smacks his chest.

"Do not dare thinking about other women in my bed!" Her brows are drawn, and he guffaws.

"You have started this conversation, my lecherous Queen. And you are not moving again." She renews her rocking, aiming for light strokes, pleasurable but not enough to bring him release. He does not mind, they have nowhere to hurry to.

"I do not want to know of other women, I want to know what you enjoyed in it..." She brushes her fingers on the downsides of her breasts, and he lick his lips. His little Queen is so enticing… He looks into her burning, slanted eyes and smiles widely to her.

"I enjoyed being in charge, my lady..." She snorts.

"Of course you did..."

"In this case a woman matters less, the power such acts give is more important. It is less personal, more lecherous..." Her inner walls clenched, and he smirks. She is more affected than she shows. "I always prefer to be the one here..." And he suddenly lifts his torso and grabs her buttock. Her eyes open wide. He brushes the tip of his middle finger on her other hole, and her whole body jolts.

"Why?" Her voice is raspy, and she clears her throat.

"Because then the woman cannot see my face, and the moment of weakness before the release. And the other men last less than me... I need more stimulation not to be left behind." His innuendo makes her inhale sharply. He watches her eyes darken, and her hips start moving faster.

"But I thought you are fond of looking in the woman's eyes through loving..."

He smiles to her. "Through loving," he emphasizes the word, "yes, and if we talk about the woman," his fingers brush her delicate tits, "then yes again, but we were talking about lying with a random woman and another Dwarf."

She smiles back and tilts her head. "Should I feel flattered that I am The Woman for you, or should I wince in disgust with the thought of all those poor women you bedded?"

"They did not complain," he chuckles.

"Of course they did not. I bet they came back for more." She shifts and presses her palms into his chest. The angle of their movement change, and he feels her pelvic bone press into him. She knows it makes it more thrilling for him, but also postpones his release. She is apparently not done talking. "Have you bedded more than two people at the same time?"

"Repeatedly," he gives her a dark smirk. "Although too many participants muddle the experience. I prefer it limited to three. My choice of who to bed at all times, obviously."

Suddenly she stops moving, and he sees her eyes widen. He face loses the dark lust of a moment ago, and at once she look very young and vulnerable. She ceased her movement, and suddenly her eyes are full of tears. Thorin feels panicked. He sits up and cups her face. She is unsuccessfully trying to blink the tears back, but they spill and run down her narrow face.

"Kurdu, what is it?" Terrified thoughts rush through his mind. Is she hurt? In pain? Disappointed in him, disgusted?.. And then an even more disturbing thought comes. Is it guilt in her eyes? Is she going to confess lecherous past of her own? Infidelity?

"I am sorry, I do not know why I am crying..." She wipes the tears with her small fists, and it makes him feel only worse. Her slender, fragile physique and the almost childish gesture make his breathing hitch.

"Kurdu?.."

"It is the time of the moon. I am sorry, I am unreasonably emotional… And I will stop..." A sob bursts out of her, and she covers her face. He considers taking her off his body, but strangely enough she continues clenching him inside her. "I am so sorry..."

He is on the edge of tears himself by then. The most logical for him reaction follows. He gets angry. "Would you explain already what is wrong, my Queen?" She jerks and cries harder. He thinks he hears her mumbling apologies between her loud sobs. He sits up and awkwardly rubs her upper arms. "My heart, you have to explain to me, I do not understand..."

"I am not enough!.. I will never be enough..." She wails and loudly snuffles. "No wonder you bed me so often… How can I compare..."

He is staring at her in astonishment. He honestly does not know whether he should laugh, or yell. Is she honestly crying because he lies with her often? He is especially vexed since everything seemed so well just a few seconds ago. Thorin decides he does not understand women. She sobs several more times loudly, each time her inner muscles clench around him, and that does not help him reign his erection. He is frustrated, aroused and apprehensive. She sniffs again and lowers her hands. Her eyes and the tip of her delicate nose are red, giant tears are still glimmering on her thick lashes, and her eyes are very sad.

"My heart, I just..." He has nothing. If only she would behave the way she normally does, his sound reasonable Queen. In the matters of feelings she is the person he goes to for advice. Whom is he to ask now? She wipes her eyes again and then tries to shakily smile to him. Her lips are still trembling, her narrow face devastated, and he feels like a brutal animal.

"Forgive me, my lord, that was… Horribly irrational… My nerves are all over the place these days..." She exhales through rounded lips and touches his jaw with her hand. "Forgive me?" He feels peeved. She throws a tantrum, literally with him still inside her, and now she seems back to calm and composed demeanour.

"Will this behaviour persist?" She lowers her head and shakes it, her unruly copper curls bouncing around her head.

"I am sorry, my lord." But if Thorin learnt anything in the months of being married to her, such wifely obedience is never a good sign. She is either plotting a revenge, or there is something eluding him. She has nothing to avenge, meaning she just dismissed him as he obviously does not understand something. He does not like the feeling.

"What called for it? And what was this trumpery about you not being enough?" She gulps and finally looks at him. She looks utterly miserable, and he feels guilty. And immediately feels his temper rising, he has no blame on him.

"I was curious about your previous habits… And I did not judge, do not take my words in a wrong way… And I thought it would be an exciting topic to discuss in our bedroom… But then I thought it must be so boring to you now..." Her face scrunches again, and she bites into her bottom lip to stop herself from crying. "I am sorry… It is the nerves..."

"It is not boring for me now..." He sounds lost. What is he even to say to this? "It is very interesting." Mahal help him, what is he saying? Eloquence has never been among his talents. And it started so nicely… She nods, but he can see the conversation has not brought any relief to her distress. He does not understand, she has started it, how can she be upset now?

His erection forgotten, he sighs and wrapping his hands around her waist he takes her off his body. She allows him, her body limp and passive. He climbs off the bed and leaves for the bathchambers. Only when the door closes behind him, he realizes he has nothing to do in here. He just ran like a coward from his own marital bed. That makes him even more annoyed. He angrily picks up a dogwood twig and shoves it in his mouth.

There is a gentle knock at the door. He momentarily considers ignoring it but then scolds himself. That would be childish.

"Yes?" She enters the chamber, a sheet wrapped around her body, dragging behind her on the floor. He turns away from her and stares at the mirror. He knows he is being unwise and cruel, but honestly, how much patience can one show in such bothersome situation? A warm cheek presses into his nape, and she sighs.

"I am always worried that you will get bored in our intimacy, my King," her voice is even and quiet, "I am indeed emotional today, and I am sorry for how I expressed it, but the fear is always here... I was practically a virgin when we wed. I have no knowledge and skills. I know you are too noble to be unfaithful, but I do not wish you to be unsatisfied. You have seen it all, tried it all, men, women, several at the same time… I am just one girl from Bree..." Her voice breaks, but when he tries to turn to her she presses her palms on his back, halting him, hiding her face between his shoulder blades. "I know you love me." Her tone is firm, and he attentively listens to this new, decisive manner of speaking. "I know you would never hurt or betray me. I know you enjoy our love. But… I wish I could give you more. And do not say you do not need anything. I know you hold yourself back sometimes..." She takes a shaky breath in. "But I will not share you. Never… You are mine."

He swirls and pulls her into him, his lips crash into hers, fiercely, greedily, and he can almost taste blood. She is clawing at his shoulders, whimpering, biting his lip in return, and he growls. He needs to tell her that she is all he ever wants, that he would not even consider any other way, that nothing has ever brought him more pleasure than her slender, responsive body, that he is happy and grateful, and fully satisfied, but his thoughts jumble, and words have never been his forte.

He picks her under her round buttocks, the sheet having slid a while ago, and he slams her back into the wall. She gasps but only clenches her arms and legs around him tighter. He slightly shifts, and his cock slides into her. She cries out, loudly and triumphantly, and he thrusts into her. He presses one hand into the wall, supporting her on the other one, and his pelvis starts pounding into her. She screams his name, pulling on his hair, pain mixing with pleasure for him, and he bites into her shoulder. She screams louder, and her nails rake his back, surely drawing blood. It makes him slam into her harder, and she climaxes. Tears burst out of her eyes, and he roars, his own release flooding him. For an instant they are frozen, and then he starts kneeling, dragging her back along the wall, and she wails. He clumsily turns and slumps on the floor. She ends up stretched on him, both of them breathing heavily, as if after a combat.

She returns to her senses first and sits up with a groan. He looks at her lazily, hardly capable of any coherent thoughts. "My back hurts," her voice is uncertain, as if she is not quite sure where she is and what has happened.

"Mine too," he shifts on the floor, the marks from her nails sensitive on the wooden floor. She is studying him with a strange expression on her face, brows hiked up, white teeth worrying her bottom lip. He lifts his arm and pulls her down, on top of him. His fingers tangle into her hair, and he presses her head to his chest above his heart.

"I am satisfied..." He hopes she understands he is answering her previous statements. He has no strength to elaborate. "I hold back when I have urges… The carnal hunger, it is dark sometimes… I hold back because it is you, and you are my wife..." Her body tenses, and he understand he is saying it all wrong. He gathers his will and rolls her underneath him. Every muscle in his body hurts, but he needs her to understand. He smiles into her cautious eyes. "I hold back because I do not need that lechery anymore. Because I have something better… You love me," he cups her face, and laughs. It is still a wonder for him. "You love me, and I know you would give me anything I asked for, but I swear to you in the name of Mahal and the Seven Fathers I do not need anything else. Just you and I. Whatever happens in our bedroom is enough." She is still frowning, and he gently kisses her lips.

"Do you not miss other things?.." She suddenly blushes, and he guffaws. After what has just transpired she is bashful.

"Such as?.." She gulps but then looks at his eyes firmly.

"I know there are things some people enjoy in bed. Bondages..." He cocks a brow and then chuckles.

"Never have been fond of them." He realizes that they are talking and feels relieved. Perhaps, they should have started with this.

"Blindfolding?"

"I prefer to see you."

"Bondages and blindfolding on a woman?" Her cheek is again pressed to his chest, and he cannot see her face, but does he detect a hint of hope in her tone? He strokes her hair.

"We can try all of it, if you wish, my heart."

"And other things..." She lifts her face and stares at him. She is stunning, eyes bright, lips swollen, and he smiles to her.

"We can try anything and everything, as long as it is just the two of us." She ponders it for a moment and nods. She seems to be harbouring a thought but he is too sated to inquire. "But even if we never do, I am content." She nods again and pecks his lips. She gets up, wobbly on her feet, and picks up the sheet from the floor. He sees that her back is indeed scratched. A tinge of guilt brushes his mind. She looks at it in the mirror and suddenly smiles wide.

"I love such bruises. Like battle scars…" He stares at her in complete astoundment. She picks up a jar of balm from a shelf and starts walking to the bedroom. "But you will have to tend to them now." She waves the hand with the jar into the air. "And I will return the favour. I am certain your back is in a much worse state."

She disappears into the doors, and he is staring at the ceiling. He rubs his eyes with the heels of his palms and yawns. He should move, but he is so satiated that even the hard wooden floor seems comfortable enough. The next question from the bedroom makes his eyes fly open, and he lunges to the bedroom, as if invisible springs propelling him towards his wife.

"Does spanking actually hurt, my lord?"


	6. Vera

**A/N: This story will at some point have Part 2. It is also linked to certain events that happened/will happen in ****RagdollPrincess****'s **_**What The Future Brings**_**. None of that is actually important, since at the moment this is a one-shot that can be read ****independently****.**

The night when Thorin Oakenshield found out his wife's secret was cold and windy. He and Kili were returning from a trip to Dale, when the younger heir of Durin saw a small figure slipping through the back door in the Northern side of the mountain. Had it not been for the unusually high flood that year, they would have taken a different road and would have stayed in Dale longer, but the weather made them return earlier, to Kili's relief. His brother and family an irresistible magnet in Erebor, he welcomed the early return. Though externally apprehensive and peeved Thorin was happy to see his wife soon as well.

"Is that the Queen?" Kili asked and then bit his tongue. Had he not said it, Thorin, lost in his thoughts, wouldn't have noticed her. The King jerked his head and saw a small figure, in a long dark cloak, disappearing behind the trees of the forest surrounding the mountain.

"Why would you assume it was her?" He looked at his nephew, who was already regretting his loose tongue. It was quite obvious that whatever the Queen was doing, she prefered it to stay known to nobody. The cloak was simple, dark, hiding her dress and hair, and she was in a hurry.

"I didn't… I don't know why I said it..." As loyal as Kili was to his uncle, Queen Zundushinh had become a dear friend to him. He felt he was betraying her trust. Thorn jerked the reins, stopping his pony.

"Kili…" Thorin's voice was menacing and hollow, and Kili tensed. The King's temper was violent and short.

"I thought I saw red hair… I don't know why I said it… There are plenty of maids in the castle that have red hair." Thorin frowned and looked at where the small figure disappeared. Kili was waiting, holding his breath. If the King saw what he did, there was very little doubt in who was trying to slip out of Erebor. The Queen of Erebor and wife of Thorin Oakenshield was no Dwarf, to confuse her frail buildfor a Dwarven maiden was impossible. After an instant of hesitation, Thorin jumped off his pony and handed Kili the reins.

"Uncle..." Kili's voice was full of doubt. "I am certain it is nothing..."

"Take my pony back to the castle, and don't wait for me." Kili internally swore. The look on his uncle's face didn't allow for any argument. His heavy brows frowned as he wrapped into his cloak and followed in the same direction he suspected his wife went.

In a half an hour he caught up with her, though unnoticed by her. She walked hurriedly, and when he saw the quick movement of her small feet he had no doubt that he indeed was looking at his wife, the former healer from Bree, and a woman of Men. She had a distinct manner of walking, her back straight in a regal, dignified posture, her step light but energetic. At some point he caught a glimpse of her flaming strands slipping from under the hood. She could never keep her unruly curls under control.

She crossed a small grove and stepped out of the trees. Keeping a sound distance from her, he stopped behind a tree and watched her impatiently look around. A small carriage appeared around the curve of the road, with two horses of regular size in front of it. It was one of those wooden boxes on wheels that do not allow one see who sits inside. Unlike the vehicles of Dale and Esgaroth merchants who would decorate them with their family seals, this one didn't carry any distinct markings.

The door opened, and the Queen climbed in, someone's hand helping her as she was too short to enter the carriage comfortably. She said something and softly laughed, probably jesting regarding her height, and another voice answered. It seemed to belong to a woman as well, but Thorin could not tell with certainty.

The carriage moved, the driver upfront also clad in a dark cloak not allowing any recognition. Soon, they disappeared around the curve of the road, and Thorin stepped in the path. He quickly followed, soon understanding they were heading to Dale.

He couldn't keep up with a two horse carriage, but their tracks were easy to read on the wet ground. Once he entered the city though, his pursuit became more challenging. As few people and horses as there were in the streets, he quickly lost the carriage among the narrow intertwined streets. The silver from his belt pouch though untied tongues of vagabonds with ease, and after another half an hour he was standing in front of a large house, surrounded by a tall fence. Through the bars he could see the carriage half hidden in the bushes behind the house.

The silver he spent also allowed him to find out the rumours surrounding the house. According to the locals it was occupied by the woman whose reputation he was familiar with but never had a chance to meet in person. Her name was Vera, and she was the Madame. By the time Erebor was reclaimed, Thorin had no interest in harlots available in Dale and Esgaroth, as his mind had already been set on going back to Bree and pursuing the woman who had claimed his heart seven years before. Nonetheless, he knew of the semi-mythical figure of the woman whose net of influence spread over Esgaroth and Dale, both cities quickly recovering and rebuilding, bursting with trade and industries. There were also much darker whispers surrounding this woman, some even concerning the Elves of Mirkwood, as well as women and men brought from all over Middle Earth.

Thorin walked around the house, staying in the shadows, evaluating the approach. There was a back door, a tall large figure of a man lingering near it. The King was certain that one would need either an invitation or a token of belonging to the club to get in. The front doors seemed locked. The problem that even as if he could enter the house, he didn't doubt his combat skills for that, what would it look like? The King Under the Mountain barging into a house in Dale, his Elven blade swinging in the air? Besides the diplomatic scandal it would cause, it would simply make him look like an imbecile.

Although the mechanics of entering the house worried him, he didn't seem to question the necessity of such action. Because as cold and calculative as he seemed to be at the moment, he could hardly breathe from suffocating, venomous jealousy poisoning his mind. His hands were shaking, and he was taking short spasmodic breaths in.

He saw light turn up in one of the windows, a tiny crack in the heavy drapes, and he gave an ash tree near it an evaluating look. Dwarves weren't great at climbing trees, but it was only the second story. He slipped to the house, when the guard was looking the other way, and deftly swung his large body over the fence. Soon he climbed over the balustrade on a narrow balcony near the window and stepped in the shadow it gave. Through the crack between the drapes he could see a narrow ribbon of light from the chamber inside and a corner of a table.

"You are late tonight, my Queen," a low, indubitably female voice could be heard from inside.

"I was held behind," his wife answered and softly laughed. "Queens have a surprising amount of responsibilities, as you undoubtedly know, my friend." The second woman laughed, and he heard a bottle clank. "No wine for me. As usual."

For a while no sound was heard from the room, and then he heard a low moan. His fist clenched on the grip of his sword. He would recognise this sound anywhere, the low sound he so often elicited out of his wife.

"I sometimes doubt the wisdom of allowing my husband dictate my hairstyle," the Queen's voice was mischievous, "If I continue following his whims soon the hair will grow down to the ground and will be dragging behind me like a dragon's tail. And Maiar, these braids are painful… Look at all these combs! Once you take them out, it is like your head is actually on fire."

"And the colour is exactly such, my Queen," the tone of the other woman was playful. "Just like the flames of the Serpents of the North. And there is your brush, my Queen, you forgot it here last time." The Queen chuckled.

"I always lose them… I should have asked the King to bring me new ones from his trip here this time." There were three brushes in the sack tied to the pony that Kili had taken to Erebor. Thorin thought it would be a nice surprise for her. She did indeed tend to lose her brushes. Little had he known some of them would get forgotten in random houses in Dale. The tone of the Queen's voice changed to slightly apprehensive, "I shouldn't have come today. He is in Dale tonight. Too much risk..."

"You promised me a visit tonight, my Queen."

"And I came, Vera. Do not forget, I always keep my promises. Shall we start?" There was a sound of furniture moving in the room, and Thorin tried to shift to have a better view. Unfortunately, he still stayed in the dark regarding what was going inside. He could only listen.

"Shall we start with chess, my Queen?"

"And tea, please. I am rather exhausted tonight. I slept poorly last night." Thorin heard a bell being rung.

"Do you still have trouble sleeping when the King is away?"

"It is a torture. You would think I'd enjoy a break from all the bonecrushing embrace I endure each night and waking up with him wrapped around me, but I hardly got two hours of sleep last night. I ended up sleeping on a settee in my parlour. The bed was so uncomfortably empty and cold..."

"Have you tried the trick with the shirt I suggested?"

"I have. It didn't work. Do you have much experience sleeping with a Dwarf, Vera?" The Queen sounded sarcastic.

"Not reposing in the same bed, no, but I understand it is the body heat you are referring to."

"To imitate his presence, Vera, I would have to put a little stove inside that shirt. You are unattentive tonight, my friend. I already got your tower."

There was a knock and judging by the sounds a maid had brought a tea tray. For a while the conversation revolved around tea and the Queen's favourite seed cake. It gave Thorin a moment to consider his own position. He was eavesdropping on his wife's conversation with a woman who was obviously her friend. Given he was surprised by her choice of a person to confide in, he out of all people knew how lonely her life was. And he already had heard something he knew she would be embarrassed if she knew he was aware of. As touched as he was by what she told her friend, it was quite obvious he had no right to. On the other hand, he felt such amicable chatter wasn't the only reason for her visit. Otherwise, why all the secrecy? He slowly returned his blade in the scabbard and turned around to jump over the balustrade again, when he heard the Madame's raspy voice.

"If you are tired tonight, my Queen, we can postpone our lesson. You do indeed look exhausted, would you like to lie down? I'll wake you up in a few hours. You will be back to Erebor before sunset."

"No, Vera, thank you. As drained as I am, I am rather curious about that new merchandise you mentioned in your note." Thorin froze one of his hands on the rails.

There was some rustling inside, a small lock clicked, and he heard the Queen gasp. A nervous giggle fell from her lips, and Thorin's shoulders grew tense. He was familiar with this sound as well. His little wife had a peculiar reaction to arousal, that exact giggle, and even laughter if his attentions to her were especially successful.

"Surely that can't fit inside, my friend..."

"Not everyone is so small, my Queen." The Queen's next question sounded astonished.

"What is that for? I understand the purpose of the two shafts, but what are these rings?"

The Madame softly laughed. "You simply put your fingers through. It is just an innovative design of the handle, nothing special."

"Oh Maiar, it is so smooth and soft. Amazing… I can't say such texture could deceive, but it is a great improvement from ebony or ivory for certain..." Thorin realized he was standing with his mouth half open. Certainly they were not discussing what he thought they were discussing.

"Allow me to brush your hair, my Queen. Your headache will ebb." He heard the Queen sigh.

"I know of your passion for hair, my friend, but I still have to refuse. Were I married to a Man I would allow, but you know what part hair plays in Dwarven culture… My hair is his, and his alone." There was some noise in the room, as if a drawer was shut forcefully. "And please, do not pout, Vera. You have access to other parts of me that no one else does, no need to be greedy." Thorin clenched his jaws, bitter jealousy burning his insides. Other parts? What parts was she talking about?

There was some rustling and the unmistakable sound of bed springs squeaking.

"Sit with me, my Queen, I have a special gift for you." Another set of springs squeaked, and he heard another box click.

"Oh, it is beautiful! What is it made of?"

"It is the fortified glass they make in Bree. It is endlessly dependable, but obviously the allure is in the looks."

"It is majestic. So long, and smooth, and the pattern..." The Queen giggles again.

"Does it remind you of something, my Queen?"

"No..." And both women started laughing.

"Are you certain? It is bespoke after all, and I did provide the craftsman with a very precise description..." Loud laughter erupted again, and Thorin heard his wife's breathless voice.

"Alright, it does look like the certain piece of armour… Oh Maiar, it does! The pattern, the ridges, and the colour is rather precise. Aren't you a naughty one, Vera?"

"You yourself have asked for one you would be comfortable to present to your King, my Queen. Wouldn't he want to wield one that would suit his armour?" The Queen sniggered again.

"Even so, it has a very distinct flaw."

"Which is?"

"It is too small," more laughter, and he heard another woman tut-tut.

"I shouldn't be surprised, you are after all married to a Dwarf. Allow me to help you with the lacing of the dress, my Queen." Thorin sucked in breath. Dress?

"Please, do. Last time your maid was so diligent when helping me to dress afterwards that I could hardly breathe on my way back to Erebor."

"Surely the dress was taken off my Queen rather quickly."

"It was. I might have been impatient to rid my poor ribs of that torture, so I was rather frivolous that evening." There was rustling, no doubt a heavy velvet attire was being taken off, and Thorin clenched his fists. His emotions in frenzy, he wasn't sure which one was dominant. Jealousy, curiosity, apprehension, or arousal… "But the King was equally full of fervour. Remember the lesson of last time? I didn't get a chance to apply the new technique. I'll be honest with you, Vera, I had my doubts. It certainly didn't look that pleasurable when your artisans were demonstrating it. As much as the male one seemed to enjoy it." Artisans? That was quite a subtle term for a whore. Images rushed through Thorin's mind, and his mouth went dry.

"It is pleasurable. And believe me, Dwarves especially welcome such attentions. With their stamina and insatiability... That is why I prefer Dwarven maidens myself." The springs squeaked, and Thorin assumed that one or another of the women in the room lay on the bed.

"You know, Vera, that I have trouble accepting your sexuality. They are my subjects, and such associations are frowned upon among Dwarves. You and your lovers can get in trouble."

"I could never understand Dwarven rigidness towards physical love between two women… You have lost weight, my Queen. There is virtually no flesh under my hands at the moment. You should take better care of your body." Thorin's wife sighed.

"I have been preoccupied. I do forget to eat when I am engaged."

"Look at this waist, it feels it'll snap if I press harder." The Queen chuckled.

"Please don't. Your current actions are perfect. And a bit lower, please. Is that a new oil?"

"Clary sage and chamomile. You should take some home. Your skin seems to enjoy it. Look at this glow, the blush, so smooth..." The Queen squealed and giggled.

"Oh it's ticklish!"

"Forgive me," the other woman chuckled, "It's the hair. What were you saying about my… associations?"

"Dwarves do not approve of tastes such as yours. There are so few women among them that they all are expected to marry and bear little Dwarven babies. And aren't your lovers mostly married? Do you not steal their attention from their husbands?"

"There is a certain charm in a woman married to a Dwarf. They are used to constant attention, they are passionate, sensual..." The woman's voice turned into low murmuring. "Their bodies are always hungry… And at the same time not all Dwarves are as considerate as a certain King. Many women crave a gentler touch. Wouldn't you, my Queen? Your marvelous skin is often marked as well." Thorin clenched his jaw. The cursed woman was right though, as much as he hated it. He wasn't always gentle.

"An infidelity is an infidelity, Vera. Lying with you is still being unfaithful to one's husband. Man or woman, it doesn't matter. One should stay away from such corruption."

"Then what is my little Queen doing in my house of lechery?" The woman's voice was raspy and lustful, and Thorin considered kicking the balcony door in. He felt rage and jealousy overpowering him.

"I am here to learn, Vera. Do not forget your place." The Queen's sudden cold tone was like a strike of a whip. "I can end your life of comfort and prosperity at any moment. You are useful, and that was the only thing that saved you when I ran into the said house of lechery." She repeated the woman's words venomously. "I was grateful for your help to my nephew, and I needed your expertise. But do not think for a second that I receive any pleasure anywhere but in my marital bed. I do not accept marital infidelity in others just as I would never consider any sensuality from anyone but the King Under the Mountain. Do not tarnish my love for my husband even in your thoughts."

There was a silence for a while, Thorin's heart drumming in his ears, and then he heard a knock at the door. The visitors were let in, and the draft from the opened door shook the curtain. Thorin pressed his back into the wall momentarily considering to jump off the balcony, but the fortunate happenstance widened the crack between the drapes.

Through it he could see a young woman and a man standing by the door. They were hardly dressed, his arm wrapped around her waist, nothing but a gauzy transparent tunic on her curvaceous body. The man's chest was bare, thin breaches on his lower half. Both were barefoot.

"They can go, Vera. I am not in the mood for a lesson tonight," the Queen's voice was peeved, and suddenly Thorin saw a tall lithe woman approach the couple by the door. She was indubitably one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen in his life. Striking features, sensual curves of her strong flexible body, full bouncy breasts moving with her flowing steps, and the most remarkable hair. Blonde, in perfect glowing waves, it reached below her knees. Dressed in a sensual undergarment, jewels gleaming on her body, she stepped closer to the man by the door and ran her fingers on his chest.

"Is he not to your liking, my Queen? Too lean, too tall?.. Too smooth?" The blonde leaned in and gently pressed a feathery kiss to the girl's lips. The man followed suit, kissing the girl's shoulder. Thorin saw the blonde's hand slide lower, on the man's flat stomach.

"His looks do not matter, and you know it, Vera. It's not his performance I'm interested in. And I'm just not in the mood." He heard the bed creak again. "Make them leave. I will return to Erebor earlier today."

The couple was dismissed, and the blonde moved somewhere in the room where Thorin couldn't see her.

"Forgive me, my Queen, I overstepped my boundaries."

"Get up from the floor, Vera. Though I am certain such position works wonders on the mood of men, I do not believe your repentance for one moment."

"I got jealous, my Queen..." The other woman's voice rang with distress, tears clearly heard in it. "Your love for your husband doesn't allow you to see how much I cherish our affiliation. How much I crave these visits, the time we spend together..." Thorin's body started shaking, from the strain to control his rage and his muscles, every cell in his body demanding to rush into that room. "Nothing is more important for me in this world," the blonde's voice was gaining its strength again, and with it its lustfulness and seduction, "Nothing brings me bigger pleasure than your presence, the chance to be near you, see you, touch you..." Thorin shifted and through the crack he finally saw his wife, sitting on the edge of a large bed, in a thin tunic and her drawers, her copper curls scattered on her shoulders.

The blonde was kneeling in front of her, her elegant hands on the sides of the Queen's thighs, her face pressed to her knees... She lifted her head and looked in the face of Thorin's wife. He saw a small smile graze the Queen's lips, and she leaned in, the tip of her nose almost touching the nose of the blonde. He saw her lick her red lips, and she cupped the blonde's face with one hand. A second earlier Thorin realized his sword was clenched in his hand. He didn't remember taking it out of scabbard. The Queen leaned lower, and Thorin heard her low soft whisper.

"That is complete and utter poppycock, my dearest. You are a great actress, but I just can't seem to believe you. Do you think that perhaps it is because I know what a cold-hearted, self-serving, manipulative viper you are?"

For an instant there was silence in the room, and then the blonde burst into exuberant laughter. The Queen straightened up and smiled benevolently. "Oh Queen Zundushihn, the Queen Under the Mountain, the glorious bonded of Thorin Oakenshield, I wonder how many fell and perished because they had underestimated a small girl from Bree!" The blonde got up gracefully and stepped to a table by the bed. She poured herself some wine, and for an instant, while she turned her back to the Queen, her face contorted in a pained grimace. But then she turned to the small woman with a pleasant smile.

"Should I have the carriage prepared for you?"

"Yes, please, and do send a maid up for me," the Queen's tone was once again soft and courteous. "And thank you for the merchandise. I shall purchase the glass one and perhaps the restrains."

"Has my Queen decided to finally share the pleasure pursuits with her husband?" Both women spoke amicably, as if no altercation had just transpired between them. Thorin had always thought that a woman was a much more hazardous adversary than any man. Calculative, cunning, ruthless, females of all species were the worst danger one could encounter. And afterwards they would smile pleasantly wiping your blood off their daggers. Thorin Oakenshield never underestimated the threat that is a woman, but at this moment he was reminded of how terrifying the one with whom he shared his life and his bed could be.

"Perhaps soon, I might need a bit more time to gather my courage." The Queen opened a mahogany box on the bed and took out a long glass object. Without any doubt a replica of a male reproductive organ, it was dark blue with ridges intricately duplicating the pattern on his brigandine.

Thorin jumped off the balcony and briskly started walking towards the road leading to Erebor. He felt exhausted and afflicted by the evening, doubts and apprehension still rushing through his mind, but a certain degree of excited anticipation coursed his blood. He was pondering his next move. Whether to let his wife know that he was aware of her avocations and put an end to this association, or rip the fruit of such pursuits, either of the choices had its charm. He chuckled and tightened the cloak around his shoulders. Impossible woman, always so competitive, almost a perfectionist, always an overachiever… A clear image of the glass toy sliding into her folds suddenly flashed through his mind, and he shook his head. Perhaps, he would wait with the conversation. After all, he could clearly remember her mentioning some restrains.


	7. Expect the Unexpected

**A/N: ****My darlings****, I seem to have some troubles with my FF account so I do not get any notifications :( I try to keep track of reviews and followers, but if you are new and I haven't greeted you, I am deeply SORRY, and WELCOME! I love you all and hope you are having great time!**

**A/N#2: Hello, ****lyssaloo****! Welcome to the mad company of kkolmakov :)**

The Gates of Erebor burst open, and Thorin rushes out. He seems to catch multitude of small details at the same time, though his eyes are glued to the small figure of his wife. Dwalin is limping, his left arm awkwardly pressed to his middle. His sister drags the sacks behind her, while Kili's wife is carrying her child. There is black blood smeared over the Queen armour. A deep scratch is bleeding on Dis's cheek. Kili runs by Thorin who is suddenly terrified and slows down. Kili is speaking quickly, his hands running over the body of his wife, his eyes on the sleeping face of his child. He is asking questions to her bodyguard, but Thorin does not seem to understand a word, hardly hearing anything through the strange noise in his ears. Fili and a healer rush towards Dwalin, Fili bumps his shoulder into Thorin's, shaking him out of his stupour. The King suddenly starts running and in an instant he is grabbing his wife's shoulders. She lifts her dirty face to him and smiles.

"We are all unscathed. Shaken and tired, but unwounded." He cannot make himself speak, his mouth as if full of acid. "Thorin," she cups his face, "We are alright. Master Dwalin needs medical attention though." He does not give a damn at the moment. He presses her into him, her Mithril breastplate scraping on his brigandine.

"You were just a few miles behind us..." She firmly presses her strong small palm into the back of his neck.

"It was not your fault, we had Dwalin and the princess' guard with us. You could not have predicted it." There is Orc blood in her hair, and he clenches his teeth. She suddenly pushes him away and grabs his hand.

"Follow me," her tone is assertive. He stares at her in confusion, and she pulls him towards an entrance in the passages.

"Zundush?.." She is dragging him with surprising strength, and as if in some sort of daze he follows. He should stay and take reports, but he realizes he is walking after his wife, her pace energetic and confident. He addresses her couple more times, but the redhaired curly head does not turn, and she continues her quick stride. She pushes him into their chambers and locks the door behind them.

He is standing in front of her, and he suddenly realizes he almost lost her today. His head swims, and he steps ahead to embrace her. She jumps at him and presses her mouth to his. It is not the relieved sentimental embrace he was aiming for, she is all raw and unbridled passion, biting into his lower lip and grabbing handfuls of his hair. He feels like an imbecile, but he cannot respond, he is standing paralyzed in front of her. He even tries to stop her, softly pulling at her arms, but she does not allow any of this nonsense. She grabs the bottom of his brigandine and jerks it over his head in a trained movement. The rest of the clothes from his torso follow, and he is gently trying to pry her hands off him, addressing her again and again. He is scared to touch her, she is battered, there is a large deep bruise on her cheekbone. She jerks her own armour off and presses to him, he can feel her taut breasts through the thin undertunic, the only garment left on her upper half. There are bruises on her chest and ribs, and he is terrified.

"Zundush, is it wise?.." The clasp on his belt clanks, she grabs the end, and in a second the belt flies through the room. "Kurdu..." She growls and grabs the waist of his trousers. He squeezes her wrists. She is still clad in armour below her waist. "My heart, you are in shock..."

"Oh shut up, my lord," she frees her hands from his grasp, pulls the strings on her waist, and her legwear falls on the floor. She steps out of it and pushes down her breeches in front of his astounded eyes. "I need you, right now. Do you understand? I need you to bed me."

Her hands are on his waist again, and this time he allows her. She falls on her knees and drags his trousers to his ankles. And then she presses her cheek to his member. Something explodes in his head, and he pounces on her, pushing her on her back. He is kneeling between her open legs, and he grabs her under her knees. He pulls her towards him, her back arching, he spreads her wider, and his cock slips into her. She screams and her nails scrape in the floor, her arms open like the wings of a bird. Her shoulder blades are still on the wood of the floorboards, her back bent backwards, and he thrusts into her, growling. She moans loudly and exultantly. "Mahal, finally..."

He does not hear. All he feels is heat, and relief, and terror. His hands lie on her hips, he pulls her into him, meeting his own forceful pounding with the tight hot softness of her sex, and her hands fly to her breasts. He sees her squeezing her small peaks, and he forgets himself. His movement almost punishing, he is plunging into her, snarling through his bared teeth, and she thrashes on the floor.

His release explodes in a giant scorching wave through his body and mind, he groans, his body convulsing, and he keels ahead, one of his arms falling on the floor near her for support. He buries himself into her several more times, his climax almost painful, muscles of his abdomen pulling, and he moans. He halts, and she whines. Her pelvis drops on the floor, his member sliding out of her, and he swears under his breath.

And then realization dawns, he grabs her under her arms, straightens up on his knees, pressing her into him like a ragdoll. "Mahal, I could have lost you today..."

She is supple and warm in his hands, and her arms wrap around his neck. "You did not… I am here, Thorin..." His ears are ringing, from the emotions and the devastating release of a few seconds ago. She presses her temple to his and whispers, "I am expecting..."

He is breathing in her familiar, sweet smell, his eyes closed, and asks absent-mindedly, "Expecting what?" She suddenly laughs loudly.

"Your son, you bonehead. I am with child." His arms open, and she slides down, her knees loudly bumping into the floor. She hisses, and he grabs her shoulders.

"What?!" She twists out of his grasp and sits on the floor groaning. She is dirty, her hair tangled, bruises cover her body, and he feels sick. He just took her on the floor, the muscles in his backside still tense. Even on a normal day he tries to be gentler. "Wren, are you out of your mind?" She is rubbing her knee and gives him a slightly haughty look.

"He is alright," her tone is condescending, "I can feel him at all times. He is unscarthed. I was conscious throughout the combat. And just now..." She vaguely gestures over the clothes scattered on the floor. "I can hear them, remember? The babes in the womb. I can hear them." She strokes her hand over her flat stomach and smiles blissfully.

He heavily sits on the floor. And then jumps up immediately. He moves to her and cups her face. He leans in to her lips, and she answers him with the sweetest of kisses. He pulls her on his lap, and she curls into his embrace. For a few minutes there are no words, just caresses, his hands roaming her body, cautiously avoiding the bruises, and then she sighs and moves away from him.

"I want a bath, my lord."

"Is it a boy for certain?" They speak simultaneously, and she chuckles.

"It is." He is staring at her abdomen, and she snorts. She picks up his hand and places it low on her stomach. He would expect it to be much higher. She leans to his ear, "I can hear his heart." He jolts and meets her shining amber eyes. "Inudoynul, melhekhuh." _Your son, my King. _

Thorin presses his wife into him, and she molds into his body, fitting as perfectly as she always does. "You are a mad woman, kurdu." She snortles and rubs her nose to his bearded jaw.

"Perhaps. But now I need a bath. And you owe me a release, my lord." He chuckles.

"And I always pay my debts." He gets up, picking her up in his arms, and carries her to the bathchambers.


	8. Morning After the Wedding Night Part 1

**A/N: This is ****the morning after their wedding night (Part 1)****. Part 2 will be up in a giffy :) **

**The wedding night itself has been written for months, but it'll go into the already existing and constantly updated **_**Thorin's Queen**_** (the story giving us the origins of this couple) for continuity purposes, so we will have to wait for it to come in synch with ****RagdollPrincess****'s **_**What The Future Brings**_**. Worry not, we are propelling through our collaboration like a tank engine! :) Choo choo!**

The first thought that comes to the mind of Wren, the former healer from Bree, and for the last twenty two hours the wife of Thorin Oakenshield, the overwhelming sensation flooding her body in the first morning of her married life, is that she is endlessly uncomfortable. She is very hot, cannot move and is sticky in more places that she would care to admit.

She has always appreciated warmth, being thin she always had to endure chattering teeth and cold hands similar to dead frogs. At the moment she would jump into an icy river if she were given a chance. She peeks and realizes that her new husband is wrapped around her, or to be precise, she is lying on him, his massive arms around her, and even his legs are intertwined with hers. The only limb she can move in actuality is her right arm. And it has fallen asleep and tingles unpleasantly.

She is also very clammy between her legs. Although they took a bath after their first intimacy, they were rather enthusiastic afterwards. She was very sore so they limited themselves to oral pleasures. Although limited is perhaps not the best choice of word. On the top of her head she can remember three climaxes for herself, and two for the King. She would probably be slightly embarrassed by such debauchery, but she is so distressed by her discomfort that extricating herself out of her husband's embrace is her only preoccupation at the moment.

She gently pulls her other arm under his limbs and realises she has absolutely no chance to succeed. He is in the deepest of slumbers, but he is continuing to hold her tightly. And now she also needs to visit the bathchambers.

She takes a deep breath, she has no time to ponder her position and arrange her frenzied emotions as she always prefers to. She lifts her head, rubs her nose to his jaw and softly calls him. "My lord… My King?" There is not reaction, the feathery black lashes do not twitch. Yesterday during the feast she harboured a thought to take her time and appreciate his appearance that she admires so much in the morning while he would still be sleeping. Finally have a close look at the lashes, the lips, the nose, without his constant authoritarian energy and tireless attentions. At the moment all she cares about is the growing pressure in her bladder.

"Thorin?" She adds some volume and assertiveness in her tone. Nothing. She gives it a quick thought and takes the only course of action she can think of. Even if the King is so hard to awake, some of his parts are not. She presses her center to his member, understanding that it is already erect, and wiggles her pelvis. More blood travels South, and his breathing changes. She doubles her effort, and there is a low rumble in his chest. To spur her success she twists her head and gently bites into his beard in a ploy that proved itself very efficient last night. He makes a soft sleepy sound, and his eyes slowly open. She has no time to gaze in them lovingly.

"Please, let me go," she sounds pleading. The blue eyes are immediately sharp, and she forcefully jerks her arm. He finally unlocks his embrace, and she rolls off the bed and dashes into the bathchambers. Once she is done, she quickly grabs a cloth and cleans up. She splashes some water on her face and looks in the mirror for the first time. She is bare except for the heavy opal necklace on her neck. She is blushed, cheeks burning, eyes bright and sparkly, and her hair is sticking out at all possible angles. And then the realization dawns. She married the King Under the Mountain yesterday, and spent the night with him. And he is in the other room, no doubt wondering what she is doing here for so long. She heavily sits on a stool by the wall and presses her palms to her cheeks.

Wren likes clarity and organisation in her thoughts. She has a habit of taking time when a drastic change happens to search through her own mind. Such understanding of herself allows her react properly in almost any situation and never lose reigns over her emotions. Although she doubts that after even three days of constant meditation she can fully apprehend the turn her destiny took yesterday. And then the sore muscles and tired limbs remind her of another adjustment she needs to accept in her life. He bedded her last night, and this morning she feels most unusual. For the first time in her life Wren is not certain of anything.

And then she starts laughing. She is hiding from her husband in the bathchambers. She slightly smoothes her hair and then decides not much can be done with it, and she confidently walks into their chambers. He is sitting on the bed, leaning on the headboard, his legs crossed, completely bare and gives her an amused look.

"Morning, my Queen." She smiles widely.

"Baknd ghelekh, melekhuh." _Good morning, my King. _He lifts one brow and stretches a hand towards her.

"I have to confess, my lady, you speaking my native tongue works wonders for my arousal."

"Do not place the blame on me where there is none. Have you not woken up in this state, my lord?" She realizes she is flirting and decides she is allowed. She slowly approaches the bed, hoping he cannot see how self-conscious she is of her state of complete undress, and climbs on the sheets. She puts her fingers on his palm, and after a moment of hesitation she straddles him. "And I am not the Queen yet. The coronation is in three days." His large hot palms lie on her waist, and he slowly and sensually strokes her skin, up to her ribs, sliding on her shoulder blades, and down on her hipbones in a fluid motion.

"I said my Queen, not the Queen of Erebor. You are my Queen." He sits up straighter and catches her mouth. In a few seconds she is completely dazed, the world is spinning around her, and blood is roaring in her ears. Her nails are gently scraping the back of his head, and she is shamelessly moaning into his mouth. His hands slide under her buttocks, and for a second he releases her mouth.

"How sore are you this morning, my lady?" He places a long kiss on her neck, and she drops back her head. His lips are searing, his erection is pressed to her folds, and she slightly rises on her knees.

"As if after a long pony ride." His tip presses into her, and she carefully sinks down. The discomfort is rather noticeable, and she cannot control a wince. He lifts his eyes at her.

"I am certain we can find another way, my heart." She places her palms on the sides of his face, and her thumbs strokes the small wrinkles in the corners of his eyes.

"The uneasiness is to be expected at the beginning, my lord. You are large, and I am not used to such attentions." She carefully shifts her hips and feels a delicious warmth and stretching inside. "We have only one way out of this vexation..."

"Which is?" He is studying her nose. And she remembers he claimed he liked the freckles. Men are strange. She leans to his ear.

"Practice, practice, and practice." He chuckles warmly and then gently lifts her, his hands still under her backside.

She presses her forehead to his, places her hands on his shoulders, and he slowly lowers her. She emits a raspy low moan and takes a few deep breaths with her mouth. She feels stretched to the limit, and his member feels scorching inside, perhaps because of the burn of the tired inner muscles. He pauses and waits for her signal. She shifts, presses her temple to his, and whispers, "Please..."

He lifts her again and lowers her on his length again, this time allowing all of his member slide inside her. She whimpers and tenses. Perhaps she overestimate her abilities.

"Kurdu," his voice is deep and tender. She meets his blue eyes. They are soft and loving. "Are you certain? We have all our life ahead of us." She chuckles and quickly kisses his lips. And then she nods. "You have nothing to prove..." She hikes her brows.

They understand each other though. They both think of his past and her limited experience, and also of her past abuse. He worries that she trying to prove that she is a worthy wife for him and that she does not compare him to her past lover. She softly laughs, he is being surprisingly insecure. She is just feeling libidinous.

"I have been imagining myself in this exact position for the last seven years, my lord," she gives his a mischievous smirk, "Do not ruin my fun." He cocks a brow and lifts her again.

"And how often did you have such lewd thoughts, my Queen?" Her nails dig into his shoulders, obviously spurring him, and he lets her slide down. And then one of his hands gently lies on her hip bone, and he carefully presses her down. She moans and closes her eyes. She feels he is looking at her, probably watching for the first signs of discomfort, but there is a small smile on her lips, and she drops her head back.

"Often..." Her voice is breathy. "And many other positions as well. I intend to fulfill all of them." She firmly presses her palms into his shoulders and starts moving. He is helping her, lifting her gently, and then she twists her pelvis, and his breathing hitches. She opens her eyes and studies his face. He is beautiful, lips slightly open, blue eyes dark, and her inner muscles clench. She can see his pupils dilate, and she smirks.

She is quickly finding her footing in the situation, setting up a confident rhythm, and he is unraveling under her. The rocking of her hips becomes more and more forceful, and then she shifts her legs, placing her feet on the sheets behind him, and he instinctively bends his legs. The angle changes, and he grunts. He sits straighter, one of his hands cups her head, and he pulls her to his lips. His other arm wraps around her waist, he presses her into him tighter, and she moans. He is almost too big.

He starts bucking his hips to meet her, and then his hand lies on her back. It is so narrow that his palm covers both of her shoulder blades almost completely. His skin is so much hotter that she shivers. He is passionate, his lips slide on her neck and then he nips the skin there, but his movements feel controlled, purposeful. He is quite obviously seeking an angle most pleasurable for her. She relaxes in his arms, allowing him to lead.

He leans her back, her legs open wider, permitting him impossibly deeper inside of her. Her back arches almost to the point of pain, and his hand squeezes her hip, guiding her body to sheath on his length. She raspily moans.

"There?" He asks but she is too far gone to answer. He continues moving incessantly, lowering his face to her, catching her nipple between his lips, giving both breasts equal loving treatment, and she feels pleasure coiling in her lower stomach. She mewls in anticipation, and he pulls her even closer, opening her up wider, his length rubbing on the exact spot that bring most pleasure. Her body starts shaking, and she climaxes, her hands gripping on his forearms. She breathes out his name, and he carefully lowers her on the sheets. His palms gently stroke her stomach and hips, and he withdraws his member. Her eyes fly open in surprise. He is smiling to her.

"But..." She honestly does not know how to inquire why exactly he is not seeking his own release. He stretches on the sheets near her, their legs on the pillows, and he cups her face pulling her into a gentle kiss. And then he slides down her body and firmly presses his open mouth between her legs. She cries out and tries to move away from him. She is oversensitive, but his tongue is relentless. She is clawing at the sheets, shifting on the bed, not sure herself whether she is trying to escape his hot mouth or move closer, and his open palm slides under her backside. He slightly lifts her to his face as if drinking from a bowl, and it is her undoing. She screams again, grabbing bunches of sheets, and her back arches in a searing rapture. Her body sags, limp and sated, and he lies near, pulling her to him. She nuzzles him and does not notice how she falls asleep.

She wakes up with a jerk, panicked that she once again managed to nod off right after her release. His eyes are closed, but she knows he is awake.

"I am sorry," she gently strokes his chest, and the blue eyes open, gleeful and carefree.

"You are forgiven, although I do not see any blame on you. What are you apologising for?"

"I fell asleep, while you still have not..." She waves her hand in front of his nose, and he smirks.

"You slept for half an hour at most, and you seemed to be needing rest. You did a lot of screaming and moving recently." She hides her face into his chest, and he chortles. And then she slides her hand down, and her fingers firmly encircle his member. It is still erect, and he gasps.

"I am a very lucky woman, am I not?" She purrs into his skin, and he takes an open mouthed breath in. "A rare woman has such a considerate husband. So selfless," her hand starts moving up and down his length, his girth too large for her fingers to close around it. "So willing to put her interests first." She bites into his pectoral muscle, and his body jerks. "Maybe it is time to think of my King's pleasure." She remembers his detailed and endlessly pleasurable mentoring from last night and runs the pulp of her thumb over the sensitive hole in the tip of his member. He groans. Her lips are near his ear. "How would my King want to take his wife now?" He roars and rolls over her.


	9. Morning After the Wedding Night Part 2

**A/N: Morning after the wedding night, Part 2.**

He grabs her around her waist and flips her on her stomach. He steadies her pelvis, she slightly spread her legs, and he slides inside her. She cries out and pushes her hips back to meet him. He supports himself on one straight arm but then leans down and whispers to her ear, "Tell me if it is too much."

He starts moving, slowly and deeply into her. She peeks over her shoulder, he closed his eyes, obviously savouring the sensation, and she stretches on the sheets, her arms in front of her, fingers curling into the covers in a feline like movement. The sensations are sweet, overwhelming, and she purrs. His hand strokes her back, fingers running down her spine, and he cups her buttock. He goes on with his long sensual thrusts for a while, and she is dizzy from the feeling of fullness, the pressure, the gentle tap of his tip into her cervix at the end of each movement. His hand roams her body, he strikes her hip, treads his fingers into her hair, and eventually he stretched on her, lowering his torso on his elbow. His palm slides along her arm, and he intertwines his fingers with her small digits. He is kissing her shoulder, and his lips start caressing her shoulder blades.

"Zundushuh..." _My bird... _"My little Wren..." His hips move more and more forcefully, lifting her pelvis when he plunges into her, and she whimpers. Instinctively she starts lifting her backside, intending to rise on her knees. "No, my heart. Stay like that..." He places his scorching palm on her hip. "Let me enjoy you..."

She moans and relaxes underneath him. He continues his measured rocking, each of his thrusts deliberate and unhurried, lips on the back of her neck. Warmth starts pooling in her lower stomach again, and she cannot help but start to move meeting his thrusts. His hand squeezes her hip, and he pins her to the sheets. She whimpers, seeking her release.

"Stay… I will take you there..." He raspily whispers, and she bites into her bottom lip to gather her will to stay still and limp. He catches her ear between his teeth, his free hand slides under her stomach, he presses her into him, and in a few willful moves he pushes her over the edge. She moans, her muscles clenching around him. The climax is white, hot, spreading through her body, she did not know it can be so breathtaking, slow and devastating. The quivering of her quim spurs him, he purposefully thrusts into her a few more times, and freezes, hissing a swearing through his teeth, and then she feels the spurt of his hot seed hitting her walls, a sensation now familiar from last night, and so very sweet. Her hips involuntarily jerk, her body trying to prolong the sensation. And he drops the second elbow near her and presses his forehead to her nape. She snakes her arm back and wraps it around his heated torso. He is terrifyingly large, strong, hot, and all hers. He is breathing heavily, and she sighs happily.

"It is different from what I thought it was like..." He hums into her nape and then kisses her skin.

"Better or worse?" She shivers from his voice, coarse and smokey, and moves her head to rub her temple to his nose.

"Indubitably better." He chuckles.

"Ever so articulate. Even in our marital bed." His voice is teasing. She giggles.

"I will also tell you, my lord, that I find your concupiscent efforts endlessly prurient." He catches her lobe between his lips, and she giggles again.

"Meaning you have never been fucked so well?" She gasps in feigned indignation, and he guffaws. It is an interesting sensation, since his member is still inside her. He slowly pulls out, and she exhales noisily. He slides on the sheets near her, and they lie on their sides facing each other. A silly shyness overcomes her, and she cannot seem to make herself meet his eyes. She presses her palm onto his chest and gently scrapes his skin.

"I was hiding from you in the bathchambers this morning." She peeks and sees his face is sated and relaxed.

"Why?" He picks up a strand of her hair and twirls it around his finger.

"I was bare, and I am not used to anyone seeing me like that. And last night was… exuberant." He chuckles, and she is pointedly staring at his chest. She momentarily wonders whether she has developed an obsession.

"I would say the last night was rather restrained." Her eyes fly to his face. She feels immediately panicked. He was not satisfied. He is studying her face. And then grabs the back of her head and pulls her very close to his face. "I had never in my life been so pleased with a night with a woman as I was last night." She tries to twist out of his grasp, he reads her too easily. "My heart, no need to feel insecure. All I meant that I cannot have enough of you. But we have every night and every day for that from now on." She sighs and hides into him. His hand lazily runs up and down her back. "We have matters to discuss, azyungeluh." She is momentarily distracted by sentimental fluttering in her chest from _my love _moniker, but then she pulls herself together.

She sits up and then realizes her feet are on the pillow. She crawls and sits her back to the headboard. She is fighting an urge to cover up with the blanket. He is watching her with smiling eyes, no doubt aware of her bashful anxiety. To retaliate she runs her fingers under his knee and finds out the King Under the Mountain is ticklish. He shifts and sits near her. And then after a moment of consideration he pulls her to his lips, his hands buried in her curls, and kisses all sense out of her. One weak thought thrashes in her mind. He is surprisingly cuddlesome for the domineering and intimidating King Under the Mountain. At the moment he is kissing her for the sake of rather innocent caressing, not aiming for anything more, and he is very playful. He moves away, and she is out of breath.

"Are you taking herbs to prevent conception, my lady?" His tone is sober, and she blinks. She would probably feel upset that he remains so unaffected by their kisses if his member did not stand erect right in front of her. And then the question reaches her understanding. The professional side of her mind switches on, and she nods.

"I started taking them right after you came to Bree to take me away," she smiles at the memories of his astonishing appearance in her infirmary. "It is indeed a matter to discuss, my lord." He nods but he is silent. She appreciates him passing the initiative in this question to her. "I would assume my King is hoping for an heir." He picks up her hand and presses it to her lips. She can see he is smiling into her skin. "I am fecund and healthy." He opens his mouth but she presses her finger over his lips. It is her expertise, and she feels confident and calm now. "But even if you are as well, it is an unprecedented matter, a marriage between a woman of Men and a Dwarf. Bearing such child could be dangerous, both for the babe and for me." His eyes become sharp and tense.

"Dangerous?"

"The babe would be large, perhaps too large. And the gestation term is different. I have given it a lot of thought, my lord." He is listening attentively, her hand still grasped in his. "I would need some time to prepare, there are herbs to take and perhaps I would need to gain some weight. I seem rather exhausted recently. All the excitement of the wedding..." He nods solemnly, and she notices he is not looking at her. She understand he does not want to pressure her, and her heart clenches from tenderness and love. He chose her as his wife, understanding that perhaps he was giving up the possibility of an heir.

"Thorin," her calm assertive tone makes him look into her eyes, "Men and Elves have children together, there is hope for us." She cups his face and gently kisses his lips. "I have all the herbs prepared, I can start on the course as soon as possible. For the first few moons they can be combined with the ones preventing conception. So we can continue our intimacy. But later we would have to be careful, not for long, but we will have to refrain from it on some days." He chuckles, she notices he is relieved.

"I know where children come from, my Queen. We will avoid the fertile days, and there are other ways..."

She moves closer to him and murmurs, "I am looking forward to all your ways, my lord." He chuckles.

"Temptress," she throws her leg over him and rubs her thigh to his. He halts her with his hand and smirks. "Have I woken up a fire mountain that has been asleep for years?" She bites his shoulder, and her next question makes his eyes widen in shock.

"Is this your poetic way of asking me if I have acquired a taste for your fucking?" She is looking directly into his eyes, and he is suddenly out of words. She straddles him again. "Then the answer is yes." He drops his head back and gives out a throaty bark of laughter.

"I might have bitten more than I can chew here. But my libidinous Queen has to wait, there is another matter to discuss." She tilts her head. Surely, if he wanted to have a serious conversation he should not stroke her buttocks in sensuous circular movements. "Your coronation is in three days, and you will need to take a Dwarven name after it."

She halts her exploration of his throat with her lips and straightens up. "I will be obliged to take a new name?" She feels a prickle of anger. She has already given up her former life, signed a rather humiliating contract before her wedding, and pronounced depreciating vows at the ceremony. She did not expect to be forced to give up her name. She frowns, and he tenderly runs the tips of his fingers between her drawn brows.

"You will become the Queen of Erebor, my heart. Like any Dwarf, you will need a true name." She immediately feels remorse for her anger. He is not asking her to give up her name, he is giving her a new one. Dwarves use their outer names, guarding their true ones and keeping them secret. "What is your father's name?"

She sighs. They have not discussed her childhood before. "I am not certain who my father was. I doubt it was the man who thought to be one." She chews on her bottom lip, but decides that she owes him open and honest answer. "And Wren is not the name I was given at birth. I chose it myself when I ran away from home." He is giving her a sharp penetrating look. He is not pressing the matter, and she is grateful. "I would prefer to discuss my past some other day, my lord." She strokes his collarbone with her fingers, and he nods.

"So it is just Wren?" His tone is tender. "No family names, no patronymic, just Wren?" She bites at her bottom lip bashfully and nods. He smiles warmly and cups her face. "Then it is your true name. You are Wren, and Wren is you." She meets his shining eyes and feels tears sting her eyes. No one has ever accepted her fully as he seems to. For a few seconds it is just the two of them in this world, their eyes locked, their breaths mixing, and suddenly they are tangled in the sheets again, their bodies intertwined, lips caressing, hands roaming each other's bodies, moans and soft cries mixing in the silence of their chambers, and no words are said for the longest time, except another's name breathed out and feverish murmurs whispered into flesh.

He is crushing her again, his body limp and heavy after another exhilarating climax. Since she went through another two, she is not certain that she did not die just now. He stirs and groans. Her legs slide off his waist, where they were tightly wrapped a few instants ago, and he weakly strokes her knee.

"But if I were to take a Dwarven name, since Queen Wren does sound rather ridiculous," she is staring at the ceiling, "What would it be?"

His forehead is pressed into the sheet near her head, and he exhales, his hot damp breath hitting the skin on her neck. She tries to shift away from the tickling, and he groans again. His member is still inside her.

"Zundushinh." _Birdlady… _His tone is surprisingly reverent. He lifts his head and meets her eyes. She is staring at him, her heart pounding in her chest. "You are who you are, and nothing will change it. Even marrying me." She throws her arms around his neck and sobs. She lets her happy tears spill without a shadow of embarrassment.

"Thank you, oh thank you," she is laughing and crying at the same, and he kisses her chastily. "I will wear this name with honour." He smiles to her and wipes her tears with his thumb.

"Do you like it then?"

"I love it!" She is laughing and peppers his face with small kisses. "And I love you!"

The words fall off her lips with a surprising ease, and she freezes. She is mortified. Such words have not been pronounced between them. Perhaps, some declarations were murmured before, but never in Common speech. She feels blush spilling on her cheeks and an absurd thought of rolling from under him and bolting into the bathchambers comes to her mind. And then he smiles, warmth and love splashing in his eyes unrestrained, and he lowers his face to hers and whispers into her lips, his burning blue eyes impossibly close, "And I you."


	10. At Her Feet

**A/N: Kinky fluff, or fluffy kink... Don't know, but I like it :D **

**I found it in the folder from my Russian trip. I swear I don't remember writing it! I read it as if someone else wrote it. That someone else has a very, very naughty mind for sure! :P**

The sun is crawling through the crack between the two halves of the green canopy, and a flirty little ray slides on the nose of the King Under the Mountain. Thorin wrinkles his nose in his sleep, trying to stay in the warm cloud of his slumber, and then sneezes. Half awake he hears a silver giggle of his wife, and a small smile tugs at the corners of his lips. He slightly opens one eye and peeks at her pillow. And then immediately opens the second one and stares at the elegant ankles of his wife. She is lying on her stomach, a large volume open in front of her, her feet dangling near his face. Thorin adores the feet, with their delicate pink toes and the delicious little bones on the ankles. Some nights with a piercing tenderness clenching at his heart he presses them to his chest, warming them up, other nights he gently bites into the soft flesh of her heels, guffawing and catching her feet, while she squeals and kicks.

"I thought we have agreed you are not to read in our bed, my heart," his eyes languishly follow the lines of her shapely legs, to the thighs, lacy nightgown bunched up on them. With delight he looks at the small firm buttocks, the curve of her lower back, and then he meets her eyes, she is smiling to him over her shoulder.

"You were asleep, my lord. I understand you do not tolerate sharing my attention," her eyes are mischievous, and he chuckles. She knows him well, that is indeed the reason he asks her to refrain from reading in their bed. Every moment of her time in it has to be his. "But surely I am allowed to do something else while you are asleep. Or am I supposed to sit and ogle you in your sleep, my lord?" He smirks and grabs the foot nearest to him.

"Ogle, of course," he presses a kiss to the arch of the gentle pink sole, and she giggles. He kisses a few more times, purposefully tickling with his beard, and then suddenly slides his tongue between her toes. She squeaks and jerks the foot. He is holding her ankle firmly, and she starts wiggling.

He is laughing, his irises hiding behind the thick black lashes, but she is a capable opponent for him. She bends her flexible body, and pushing from the bed she rolls on top of him, one of her hands pushes into his breeches. He exhales loudly and grabs the second foot. He bites into the tender skin on the sole and then takes her big toe in his mouth.

Her deft fingers pull the strings on the lacing and open his fly, while he is sucking at her toes. She gently pulls her feet to shift her body, obviously not objecting to his ministrations, and her knees slide down on the sheets, on the sides of his torso. She supports herself on her hands and in a trick never failing to drive him into carnal frenzy she envelops his cock with her soft lips, and then she sucks it in, slightly tilting her head, and pushes down, allowing his cock slide deep into her throat. He raspily groans and drops his head back on the pillow, abandoning her feet.

"Mahal, you are good..." Her hot mouth, her lips tightly encircling his impressive girth, deft tongue caressing him, while she is slowly sliding up and down... That is his favorite beginning of such attentions. Slow, deep movements, his tip hitting the back of her throat, her mouth and esophagus constricting rhythmically, massaging him, her sucking forceful but not yet agitated.

His palms stroke her calves, her skin smooth, everything about her cool and taut. She stretches on him, and her strong fingers envelop the base of his phallus. She switches her attention to the head, her tongue lapping on the first drops of liquid appearing at the tip, she is caressing the ridge and then the hot little tongue starts encircling his member, first the head and then it moves down in an intoxicating spiral. He is buried in her throat again, down to his root, and she is now sucking using only her lips, her throat relaxed.

She also starts moaning loudly, and through the pulsating daze of his pleasure he realizes it is not just for the sake for his additional enjoyment. She is arching her back, and he feels her juices pooling on the skin of his middle. Her gown is covering her backside, but she is undoubtedly rubbing her center to him. He pushes his hand under the skirt and featherily touches her folds. His fingers are immediately coated in her wetness. It is covering her thighs and his middle, and he growls.

He momentarily thinks that he is being selfish, perhaps he should reciprocate, and suddenly she lets him go. She cries out throatily and falls on his body. She is breathing heavily, shudders run through her body, and she makes a few of her usual weak mewling sounds. Her forehead in pressed to his breaches covered leg, and he is watching in amusement how his wife is quite obviously enjoying her release from performing a fellatio on him.

He is chuckling, and she weakly waves her hand at him. "Do not mock me..." Her voice is trembling, and he guffaws. She attempts to smack him, but her extremities are so limp that her arm just sways in the air and falls on the sheets without reaching its goal. He starts gently stroking her calf, and she rubs her cheek on his leg. "I need a moment..."

He smiles, "Take your time, my Queen..." After a few moments she pushes from the bed on still trembling arms and sits up on him. He immediately sits up as well, picks her up under her arms and presses his lips to her nape. "May I?.." He does not need to specify, and she nods. He slightly lifts her. She aligns her hips with his member, and it slides inside her. She drops her head back and moans. One of his arms encircles her middle, another one slips under her chin, and he turns her face and catches her mouth in an askew kiss.

She plants her knees on the sides of his body, and he bucks up his hips, both of them groan from the first deep thrust. She presses her hands into his knees, and they set a forceful, unified rhythm, him pushing into her, her meeting him, arching her back. He is kneading her small breasts, she is clenching him inside. He is pressing his forehead to her back, "Mahal, you are magic..." He is aware he talks in bed with her, she is the first woman to affect him thusly. He is familiar with lewd bedroom talk, sometimes it is a pleasant ploy. But with her he emits uncontrollable, feverish murmuring and often straightforward swearing after his release.

"Your sweet quim... Oh my sweet little Queen..." She lifts her arms and pushes them in his hair. He buries his face in her neck and breathes in her smell. Her thighs squeeze him, and he especially enjoys the sensation of her round little buttocks meeting him with each push. He is approaching his release and shortly ponders whether he wants to change the position before it.

She suddenly grabs his hand and pushes it down from her breast. He lets her, and both their palms are first splayed on her stomach, and then she confidently shoves his hand down to her curls. He smirk into her skin and follows her silent order. Since her legs are spread, to accommodate the width of his body between them, she is wide open. She is also definitely sensitive after her release, and he is gentle. The pulp of his index finger brushes her clit, and she hums encouragingly. And then he tenderly presses the clit between his index finger and thumb, rolls it between them, and she cries out in pleasure. He continues caressing the small bundle of nerves, and her movements stutter. Her back strains and tenses, she is obviously listening to the waves of pleasure in her body, and he forgets about his own release.

Sudden hunger awakes in him, and he pushes her off his body. She yelps and falls on the sheets. "Let me... I want... to taste you..." He is incoherent, but he is in a hurry. Her eyes are wide open, pupils giant and black, she is seemingly confused, but he pushes her knees apart and covers her folds with his mouth. She screams and arches. He swirls his tongue around her entrance, and her hands push into his hair. She painfully grabs handfuls of his strands and pushes his face into her sex. He is sucking loudly, pulling her lips into his mouth, gently biting, and she presses at the back of his head harder. She is also shamelessly rubbing her center to his face, making his beard scratch her wet folds. He pushes his tongue into her, rhythmically, curling it inside her, and she keeps on pushing her pelvis up. He picks up her buttocks, each in one of his hot palms, lifting her up, opening her like the sweetest of fruit, lapping on her juices, greedy and thirsty, and she screams shriekily in her release.

He places her down and presses his sweaty forehead to the sheets. He is taking short, loud breathes in, and notes that she is also panting nearby, her eyes closed, her fingers still clenched around handfuls of his strands. His body is shaking, and he can hardly remember what has just transpired. They are lying in silence for a few moments, and then she stirs.

He realized his eyes were closed, his lids are heavy, but then he makes an effort and meets her amber eyes. They are still clouded after her release, warm and loving, and he stretches to her. She wraps her arms around his neck, and he seeks her lips. They kiss, and then she giggles into his mouth. He moves away and looks at her questioningly. She wipes his beard and funnily wrinkles her delicate nose. "You are clammy, my lord..." He smiles back at her.

He opens his mouth, but she presses her tiny finger to his lips. "You are definitely going to try to shock me with some obscenity, my lord," she is frowning in mock disdain, and he chuckles kissing the tender little digit, "I would rather you lie down and enjoy yourself." Her smile is impish, and he catches the back of her head and pulls her into a passionate kiss.

They spend a few moments savouring the caresses of lips and tongues, carnal fire rising in him again, and he realized he is pressing her into himself tighter, his palms grabbing her buttocks again, his teeth nipping on the tender skin of her neck.

She deftly rolls him on his back, and he spread his arms on the sheets like wings of a bird, clearly signalling that he is all but in her power. She chuckles and sits on the sheets between his knees. He cocks a brow, curious of what she will come up with now, when she lifts one of her legs, and her small foot gently presses over his erection. The sole is soft and warm, and she carefully rubs it up and down his cock. He presses his head back into the sheets. "Mahal, that is good..." He has never been pleasured this way before, but it is astonishingly enjoyable.

"You seem rather fond of my feet, my lord, do not think I have not noticed your excessive attention they receive," she curls her tiny toes, and there is additional pressure around his girth. He rumbles in his chest. "Would you like me to continue?"

"Yes," he breathes out, and she moves her delicate little foot faster.

"Are you certain, my lord?" Her tone is endlessly mischievous, and he growls.

"Don't stop!" He is rewarded with her silver laughter, and then her second foot touches his member on the other side. He groans loudly when with amazing nimbleness his cock is encircled between the arches of her feet, and they slide up and down his length.

There is buzzing in his head, his release is startlingly close already, and he grabs her feet between his hands, pumping them along his cock. The feeling of her warm skin sliding up and down his member, the delicate little bones under his fingers, and her soft moan push him over the edge, and he spills on his stomach and all over her feet and his hands. He is taking loud sharp breaths in, his chest heaving, and she giggles.

"Kinky, kinky Dwarf..." She shifts without taking her feet away, he is still clenching them in his palms, his member still between them, but he has no energy to look what she is doing. A towel falls on his head, she indubitably just threw it into his face, and he chuckles. He lets go of her, picks up the cloth and cleans up her toes and soles. She pulls them away, and he is wiping his stomach. She sits on her bent knees, an adorable habit of hers, and he throws the towel aside and sits up.

He pulls her into a slow savouring kiss, and then he cannot help it. He starts laughing and topples her into the sheets.

"Who is the kinky one here, my little Queen?" He is kissing her collarbones now and then catches her nipple into his mouth. She buries her fingers into his strands and purrs.

"I just took your enthrallment with my toes a wee bit further, my lord." He lifts his face from her stomach and wiggles a brow at her.

"What can I say, kurdu, every little inch of you is so deliciously appetizing!" She laughs with him, grabs his ears and gently pushes him down.

"I suspect some parts of mine feel rather left out at the moment, my lord."

He smirks and proceeds to attend to the poor, poor lonely parts.


	11. Their Wedding Night

WEDDING NIGHT

"You appear to be more anxious than your bride, my lord," your voice shakes him out of his preoccupation. You two are standing in front of your sleeping chambers that you are to enter as a married couple for the first time. His hand is on the heavy wood of the door, but he is immobile. He looks at you askew and pushes the door. You confidently walk by him, through the parlour and into the bed chambers. You have overseen their organizing and decoration, a large bed with a heavy green canopy is prepared for the night, fire burning in a firepit.

You stand in the middle and turn to him. He is strangely hesitant, you see his fists are clenched. "My lord?" You do not doubt his fervour for you. In the short two months that have passed since he showed up in your infirmary after seven years of your hopeless longing for him he could hardly stay away from you. Your embraces have been always on the border of lewd, always leaving you both disheveled, your clothes in disarray, so often at the wrong time. How many times have you been dragged into linen pantries and dark alcoves in the passages, his greedy hot lips and palms on every uncovered inch of your skin?

The first time you two were alone when he came to Bree to take you to Erebor, he ardently said that he wished to marry you and possess your heart and your body as your husband. You unsurprisingly agreed, leant in and pressed your lips to his in a decisive kiss. Few very pleasurable minutes later he gravely announced that he would wait till your wedding night to know your body. You agreed, certain he would not last. You were wrong.

And now, instead of a passion overwhelmed, endlessly appetizing and skillful lover, you find yourself with a rigid, frowning Dwarf, frozen in the middle of the chamber, whose face can only be described as peevish. "My lord?" You start giggling. Perhaps it is nerves but he looks endlessly amusing. "Is there something not to your liking, my King?"

"No, of course not," he steps to you and picks up your hands, "You are right, my heart, I am anxious. You are essentially a maiden, and I… I sometimes find it hard to control myself." You school your face in a neutral expression. Perhaps it is slightly early for him to know that most of your libidinous fantasies include a unbridled lustful male pressing your body into sheets while his hips are thrusting into you deeply and roughly. In the last seven years the outline of the heavy wide body in your dreams is definitely Dwarven. There might be growls and roars somewhere there in your dreams, as well as, and you will have to keep it to yourself at least for a while, your wrists grasped in strong controlling hands. Sometimes those very large hands are tied to bedpost. You have diverse fantasies.

You are also a healer and familiar with the anatomy of a Dwarf. And that part is rather alarming. Whatever Dwarves lack in height, they compensate in width. And all their extremities are build accordingly. Also, you have felt the King's length, though through several layers of fabric, pressed to you many times by now. The length alarms you too.

You step to him and wrap your arms around his neck. His honesty makes your heart flutter. You do have a lot of openness and trust to build, but that is the first step. You understand that such confession was not easy to make. You smile and kiss the beloved lips. "You are right, my lord, it has been more than ten years since I bedded a man, and I have to confess," you cup his face with your right palm, "I hardly remember how it is done." He does not miss the mischievous glint in your eyes and chuckles.

"You will find the mechanics are rather simple, my lady." You smile into his eyes.

"I will not take offense, my lord, if you happen to lose command over your passion. Your current coldness is much more disturbing."

"I am not cold, I am considerate!" He lifts his brows in surprised indignation.

"And a grouch!" You gently tap the tip of your finger on his nose. The brows hike higher. You laugh.

He is fighting a smile and loses. Then he presses you into him and catches your mouth. You hum in approval and bury your hands into his hair. It is silken, heavy, and your fingers meet hidden braids. You grab handfuls of the strands at the back on his head, and he rumbles.

Then his hands slide on your shoulders, and he unclasps your long cape. It is embroidered with gold, priceless gems adorning it high collar. The heavy white velvet falls on the floor. The same patterns cover the dress, the same white velvet, brocade starting at the low collar going down to the hem, the adornment thicker, increasingly more opulent and gems more numerous the closer it gets to the hem. It is heavy and hot now that you are near a fire pit. But that is obviously not the main reason why you want to shed it as soon as possible.

His hands are on your back and he deftly pulls on the strings of lacing holding it together. You feel his fingers graze your shoulder blades in the low cut of the undertunic, and you shiver. Your back is very sensitive. You feel that the dress is open, cool air on your spine, and you start pulling on the collar. He covers your hands with his and halts you. His eyes are dark, and his jaw is clenched.

"Perhaps we should move slower, my heart."

"We are not moving at all!" He stares at you. You are getting impatient. You grab the collar of the detestable dress and jerk it down. Then you swiftly move your shoulders from side to side, and it falls on the floor.

The undertunic is gauzy and reaches your knees. The King gulps. "You are overdressed, my lord." You think that perhaps he will react to a more authoritative tone. You unclasp the buckle and throw the belt aside. He looks as if he wants to run. He also is looking at your breasts, which you find at least slightly promising. You grab his hand and put it on your breast. "Which one of us seems to have forgotten the proceedings, my lord?" He lifts his eyes from the view of his large palm covering your peak and stares at you.

Then the other massive palm cups the back of your head, and he pulls you into a fierce kiss. You step closer, trying to mold your body into his. Your hands slide under the hem of his tunic, and he hisses. You have cold hands. You also make a delightful discovery. The King Under the Mountain is ticklish. You store the knowledge for later, not without a small sample. He squirms out of your hands, and then the Dwarf that enraptured you all those years ago is back. He pounces, in a low fluid motion cuts you down under your knees, and throws you across the room on the bed.

You land with an "oomph" and start laughing. He darts to the bed, waistcoat and tunic flying off, and he is pulling on the strings on his breeches. You lean back on the bed, supporting your upper body on your elbows, and lift a brow. He kneels on the edge of the bed and grabs your ankles. Then he pulls you closer, spreading your legs. Your hands lie on the wide chest, covered in thick, coarse chest hair, muscles hard, sculpted, numerous white scars. You slide your palms up and down, completely enticed, and realize that he is studying your face. "You seem to be enjoying yourself, my Queen."

"I have never felt… This..." Apparently arousal hinders your eloquence. Who knew? "Only on the wounded." His lips twitch.

"Have you been feeling your patients, my lady?" You curl your fingers and dig your nails into his hot skin as a punishment. He hisses. You open your mouth to apologise but them notice his facial expression. That is not displeasure at all.

Your mouth goes dry. You wrap your legs around his hips and pull him closer. He is obviously willing, since you would not have moved this massive weight if he were to resist. He pushes you down, and his body covers yours. Seven years ago he had you spread on the kitchen table, and the memories deprived you of sleep night after night.

He is kissing you, and all thought vacates your head. Except for the thought of the hot, massive length that is pressing into your thigh. He is also very heavy, and you gasp for breath. He lifts his torso on his elbows, and then his lips slide on your throat. "Thorin…" You rarely use his name, but it feels natural in the intimacy of your sleeping chambers. You feel his tongue on the tendons of your neck, and then his white teeth nip your skin. You feel dizzy.

One palm slides on your breast, and then he moves lower, he pulls on the shoulder of your undertunic with his teeth, and you arch your back. His lips are hot, demanding, he is sucking on your collar bone, and it almost hurts. You inner muscles clench, and you feel that your drawers are wet. Your hands are roaming his shoulders, and then he closes his lips on your nipple. You cry out. It feels as if no one has ever touched you like that before. To think of it, it is indeed so. You suddenly feel faint, and the professional part of your mind leaps into action. You notice the elevated pulse, trembling muscles, laboured breathing, and realize that your body is not coping. You need to slow down if you want to spend your wedding night conscious.

He is pulling on your undertunic, his lips on your stomach, and his tongue dives lower and lower, slick and confident. You bite your lips and grab his shoulder. "Thorin, you have to halt..." He does not hear, and his lips close over your sex through the drawers. You cry out and start twisting out of his hands. They seem to be everywhere, and it is too fast, too much, his smell all over your skin, his heat burning you. "Please, Thorin, you have to stop..."

His body goes rigid, and he lifts his face. It is confused and hurt, and you are biting your lip harder. This is not what you wanted your wedding night to be, you wanted him, and you wanted his passion. You are panicking, and the more you panic, the more you panic that you panic, and then… You are taking short spasmodic breaths.

He shifts his weight and slides on the bed near you. He pulls you into him and wraps his arms around you. You realize that your undertunic is around your waist, he pulled it down, and your drawers slid down to the middle of your hips. You hide your face into his neck. "Forgive me, my heart," his voice is soft and remorseful, "just like I was afraid..."

"No, no, it is my fault, I wanted it so much, and I forgot that I am not good at it..." He lifts your chin and makes you look at him.

"There is no comparing, you are my One, my wife, you are the best for me. And besides," he gently kisses your lips and smiles, "We do not know yet what you are like at that."

"It just suddenly became too much..." You are blushing. Where is the confident temptress of a few minutes ago?

He nods and kisses you again. The kisses are guarded and gentle. You pull back and slide your hand on his chest. You realize you might have found your favourite place to rest your palms. "I wanted to show you, my lord, that you do not need to contain yourself, that I want all of your passion, all of your fervour… But I seem to have achieved exactly the opposite." You look at him, and his face is soft and loving.

"What would you like right now, my heart? Perhaps you need to take command for a while, it will let you feel more at ease." You ponder your options. You were not lying, you can hardly remember what transpired between you and your former lover.

"Would you allow me a bit of exploration, my lord?" He courteously nods. You snort. He looks very decorous with that slightly tilted nod of his. And the naked chest and half open breeches.

You inhale and sit up. He stays on the bed, simply rolling on his back. You pull off your undertunic and after a moment of hesitation your drawers. His lips twitch but he stays still. You straddle his legs and reach for the strings on his breeches. Your fingers jerk a bit, but then you pick up the ends and pull. Everything should be familiar. You have cut clothes off numerous warriors, pulled them off bloodied bodies, unfortunately had to treat different lovers diseases. Nothing in your experience seems to be helping right now. You are weirdly terrified.

You open up the fly and pull the trousers down. He lifts his hips, his hands still on the sheets on the sides of his body, and he is silent. The breeches follow the rest of the clothes, and you are staring at his member. You feel a foolish urge to ask for permission to do anything else but then remember that that is your husband underneath you. The thought erupts in your mind like fire in a forge. Husband… You smile widely and look into his eyes. He smiles back without understanding, just sharing your elation.

"I just realized we are married." His smile gets wider, white teeth gleaming.

"Was that the view of my member that made you finally perceive it?" You laugh.

"Yes, apparently it possesses magical qualities! Clears minds, elevates spirits, wakes up desires..." You are murmuring and lowering your mouth on it. You keep your eyes locked with his and touch the head with the tip of your tongue.

"Mahal…" He groans, his pupils are enormous. You wrap your fingers at the base. "No, not this..." His hand is pressed into your shoulder not allowing you to bend down. "I might not have ten years of chastity behind my shoulders, but I have been waiting for this night too, my heart." You lick your lips.

"You allowed me exploration, my lord." He is hesitant. You slide your palm up and swirl your thumb on the tip. He drops his head into the pillows.

"Mahal, so good..."

You lower your lips and envelop the head. It is very thick and momentarily you think after tonight you might have trouble walking. Or sitting down. But you will worry about it later, at the moment you are preoccupied. The taste is amazing, and you moan. He growls. You guess, the vibration of your mouth traveled. You moan louder and swirl your tongue on the ridge of the glans. He grabs handfuls on the sheets.

You let him out and stretch on the bed between his legs. You take your time, having a good look, exploring with the tips of your fingers, occasional licks and eventually with a long deep suck. He grabs your shoulders and throws you off his body. He is breathing heavily and rubs his face with his palms. "Have you done that before, my lady?" His voice is low and gruff, and you feel momentarily embarrassed. You have done something wrong.

"No, I have not." He looks at you, his face unreadable. He shakes his head, and pulls you into a kiss. You want to enjoy it but your stubborn nature mixed with wound up nerves do not let you move forward. You also might feel silly tears coming, and you bite into your lip. You decide here and there that you are not going to shy away from this, you want trust and understanding in all spheres in this marriage. "I am sure I can improve my skills."

"Please, don't," his voice is peevish, and you flinch away. Then he finally notices your face. "Oh, Mahal, no, that is not what I meant! It was too good, too fast," he is kissing your cheeks now, "I would have spilled my seed, had you not stopped. I asked since you obviously do not know the signs of the approaching release."

You sigh in relief. "I would still like some mentoring, my lord."

He smiles widely. "Of course, but first..."

He flips you on the bed and takes a position between your legs imitating your previous one. You instinctively press your knees together but then you look into his eyes and relax. You spread your legs, and he smiles. His eyes are on your folds, and you feel your cheeks burning.

"Did you know that they are all different and there are not two that are the same, my lord?" He smirks and licks the tip of his index finger. Your walls clench in anticipation.

"Since we have established that you have never given such favours, my Queen, have you ever received any?" The finger slides just outside the folds, and you exhale sharply.

"No, not from a man..." His lips are on the inside of your thigh, and you whimper.

"A Dwarf perhaps?" He is kissing closer to your wet curls.

"No…" He places a small kiss on the mound and then gently licks the clit.

"An Elf?"

"No!" You yelp, and his lips stop on your folds. "I mean, yes, yes to what you are doing, my lord, and no, definitely no to an Elf. Ugh no..." He chuckles, and the beard scratches your inner thigh. That might be one of the most erotic sensations you have ever experienced in your life.

"Let me think, who is left..." He switches sides and the sensitive skin on the other side receives the same treatment.

"Not a man, as in a woman." He was lowering his mouth on your sex, and he freezes. "Oh, I forgot to mention this, did I not?" He lifts his burning eyes at you. "You did not ask though, my lord. You asked whether I ever loved and bedded another man, and were there any in those seven years, and there were none." You shrug in a feigned nonchalance. You are enjoying the view. The delectable, aroused King Under the Mountain between your thighs, lips pink and glossy, eyes wide open, what is there not to enjoy?

"And how many of them were there?" You lift your index finger and show it to him. He lifts a brow.

"I am not a lecherous Dwarf to gallop through lands in search for diversity in carnal pleasures. It was a union of kindred spirits." He is pondering.

"I do not know which would have been worse. Knowing that you had many lovers, or that you had one but it was of spiritual nature. And involved this," he points at your sex with his eyes.

You get slightly offended. That is not the reaction you expected. "And you, my lord? How many lovers have you had?"

"Quite a lot," he concedes and then asks, "What happened?"

"Are we to discuss it now? I thought we had other matters to attend."

"We have all night," he is persisting.

"I am getting cold, my lord." He rubs your thighs and stomach with his palms.

"Perhaps we should move under the covers." You nod.

You two settle under the sheets and blankets, bodies not touching, but close enough, his hand stroking your hip. He is holding your hand in another one and is kissing your knuckles. You sigh, nothing seems to be going the way you imagined this night. "She was a healer as well, but also a thief," you chuckle, and his brows hike up. "A disgrace to our craft. She travelled from Gondor, we worked together in the infirmary. She was experienced, I… I would not accept another man, but that somehow felt different, it felt as a continuation of our friendship," you stroke his chest, "But then I realized it was not. Man or woman, it does not matter. It is still giving yourself and sharing yourself. I promised you, my lord, when you left me in Bree, that I would not have another, and I felt I was breaking the promise. So I broke it off, she left."

"You did not owe me anything, my heart." He still looks slightly pleased, although trying to hide it. Smug Dwarf.

"I think, it was not for you, my lord. I know myself. I made that promise not in a heat of a moment, but knowing that it is final. I was not to belong to anyone else, and not to possess anyone else. I am and always have been yours."

"And I am yours," he pulls you into a gentle kiss, and you relax into him. He is so hot, solid, and you arch your back, wishing to feel every inch of his scorching skin. Then you wrap a leg around him, and your sex presses into his length. One inch in height difference turns out to be rather convenient. Your rub the arch of your foot to his calf.

There is so much coarse hair everywhere, and you giggle. Then you slide your palm down from the chest and splay your fingers on his abdomen. "So much hair," you have not realize you are talking out loud.

He chuckles into your neck. He mimics your movement, and his hand splays on your stomach. "So smooth," the calluses scrape your skin, and you tingle from head to toe.

Then the hot palm moves lower, and he gently dip the very tip of his middle finger between your folds. You exhale sharply and giggle again. His eyes fly to your face. "I giggle when I am excited," you also blush, and at the moment you are probably pink all over. He studies your face, and then the finger pushes deeper.

You moan and try to hide your face behind your hands. He nuzzles your knuckles, and you lower your hands. "Don't hide from me, kurdu." Your heart clenches as it does every time he speaks Khuzdul to you. _My heart… _

You smile to him and press your hips into his hand. The intrusion is very tangible, and you bite into your lip. He starts moving his thick finger in and out of you, and your head swims. "You need to be ready," his lips are caressing your neck. He is very gentle.

"Perhaps, for the sake of preparation..." You choke on your words when he reaches especially deep, "you should add another..." You whimper when he slips another digit in. He also adds a twirl into his movements, sometimes spreading the fingers a little, stretching you, all of it in a hypnotizing, almost musical rhythm, and you suddenly climax, your whole body convulsing, hands grabbing his hair, teeth sinking in his ear that your were kissing just a moment ago.

You are shaking, riding the waves, and he is chuckling, kissing your collar bones. You are whining, nuzzling behind his ear, but the tremours in your lower body linger. Finally you take a deep breath and feel your body slumbering. He is smiling into your skin, his fingers still buried deeply in you. "That was unexpected..." Your voice is raspy.

"Indeed," he starts removing his hand, but you clench your walls and your thighs.

"Oh, wait..." You grab his wrist and halt his hand. Then you shift your hips and slide off his fingers. "Oomph, that was too much..."

He pulls his hand from under the covers and inspects it. You wrinkle your nose. He chuckles again. Then you leap ahead and press your lips to his. "I think I am ready, my lord. We should proceed before my body forgot what the whole preparation was about."

He rolls on his back and picking you up like a pup he places you on top of him. His member is pressed under your hips, and you feel hot all over. You rub your folds to it, carnal hunger rising in you. "This might be easier, my heart." You ponder but then shake your head.

"No, that will have to wait." You slide off him, lie on your back and stretch your arms to him.

He covers you with his body but you can see doubt on his face. "On top you can see to the depth..."

"I trust you," his eyes peer into yours intensely, and you smile, "I trust you, Thorin."

"I could hurt you."

"You won't. You will be gentle. You will make me your wife, and I will enjoy it." You are smiling and stroke his face. You fingers run through the thick beard, and he closes his eyes.

Then he positions himself at your entrance and presses his tip into you. You are still smiling and kissing his face. He pushes, and you gasp. He stops but you push your hips towards him, taking him in deeper. "Thorin..." He is kissing your neck and slowly pushes in. The pain slashes across your abdomen, and you clench your walls. He is not moving, slowly kissing your face, and you feel tears on your cheeks.

"Are you hurting, kurdu?" You shake your head. "Don't lie to me about such things," his voice is grave but he is trying to sound tender.

"I am not. It is gone already."

He is looking in your eyes. "We should not have…" You carefully wrap your legs around his waist. The movement of your hips causes discomfort inside, and you wince. Then you press him down with your calves.

"I think you should start moving..." He is hesitant. "Thorin, please?"

He is rocking his hips, gently and slowly, each push a bit deeper than the previous one, the movement cautious and fluid, and the pain returns momentarily. It is quickly forgotten, the sliding of his member in and out of you smooth, sleek, your wetness abundant. His eyes are closed, and he never looked more beautiful. He is murmuring feverishly, "Kurdu… Haban… Azyungel… Yasith..." _My heart, my gem, my love, my wife..._

You start moving too, pushing into him, arching your back, accepting him and welcoming him. He straightens one arm, lifting his upper body, bends his leg and his thrusts become deeper. You move your knees higher on his torso, and your nails sink into his back. He is moving faster, and you realize he is losing control. Your moans turn into screams of pleasure. You are stretched to the limit, already sore, and the pain mixes with pleasure. "More..." You breathe out, and he growls. "More, my King, more..." His hips stutter in their rhythm, and he is staring into your face. You grabs handfuls of his hair and pulls him to your lips. And then you bite into his bottom lip. "More..."

He hooks his arm under one of your legs and hikes it up. He rolls his hips into you, and your pelvis rises at a new angle. You cry out and rake his back with your nails. He starts thrusting, he is crushing you, your body shattering under him, enveloped in his heat and strength, and you climax again. You are thrashing under him, but he does not slow down, his pounding merciless, and then his hips jerk, and he releases into you. You are mewling from the hot surge of his seed into your oversensitive walls. You can feel the spurts of it, again and again, and you grind your hips into him, trying to prolong the sensation. Your walls clench around him time after time, and he is moaning.

He falls on you, and you whimper. He is breathing heavily, and his each inhale crushes your ribs. You squirm, trying to push him off. And then you start giggling. "You are crushing me, you brute..." He chuckles too but does not move. You press your palms into his shoulders and theatrically give him a shove.

"I cannot, my Queen. I will never move again. I will be a bedridden King..." His low throaty chuckles reverberate through your body. Then he rolls off you and pulls you into him.

You curl into his side and sigh. Your breath hits his ribs, and he jerks. "Have mercy..." You are chuckling now, and then you settle your head under his collar bone and tread your fingers into the chest hair. You run them through for a while, and he looks at you askew.

"Do you ache, my heart?" You try to shift your hips. The soreness is definitely there.

"In the most delicious way, my lord, but yes." He pulls you up and aligns your gaze. You smile, and you two are kissing for a while. You push your hands into his glorious mane. You are thoroughly enjoying post-coital bliss with the King Under the Mountain.

"We should probably limit ourselves to one time tonight, my heart," he is murmuring, his hands studying your body. He seems to be especially fascinated by the shoulder blades.

"How soon would you be able to repeat it if we decided to, my lord?" You are feeling frisky. He presses his pelvis into you. That is your answer. Maiar help you, it feels bigger this time. "Oh," you lift your brows, "And how many of these should I expect in a night?"

He smirks, "I have to say it seems to be unusually eager with you, my Queen. But about five." You gasp in a feigned terror and press a palm to your chest. He guffaws. "But not tonight," he kisses the tip of your nose. "You need rest, my heart."

You smile. "You are right, my Lord. I think it is time for education now." He recoils.

"What?" You giggle.

"You promised to mentor me, my Lord." You slide your hand under the covers and wrap it around his member. He gives you a lopsided grin. You throw the blankets off you two and slide down his body. And then you notice blood. There is not too much, but streaks cover his thighs and member, as well as the sheets. You look down your body. It is definitely spread between your thighs. You count quickly in your head. Not another two weeks till your monthly pains.

He notices it too and sits up. "You said you were not a maiden!"

"I was not. It happens, it just has been too long." You look at him and see he is blanched.

"You also said it did not hurt that much!" You are surprised to notice he is angry. "You cannot lie to me like that!"

"I did not. There was pain but it subsided quickly." You look at the stains disdainfully. "Well, that certainly killed the mood." He is still looking at you suspiciously, as if trying to determine how much ache you are hiding. "My lord, I am not suffering. Would I have reached release if I were in unendurable pain?" He frowns.

"Probably not… Unless..."

"I do not receive pleasure from being tortured, my lord!" Perhaps slightly on the lewd side in some of your fantasies, you are definitely not for physically injuring your body for pleasure. Or inflicting pain on others.

He sighs, "Perhaps we should request a bath. And to have the sheets changed." You nod, and then your mind starts calculating. That hindrance might be an unexpected gain. Servants will talk, and a virgin Queen of no Dwarven descent is at least better that a lecherous woman of Men on the throne of Durin.

The wooden bath is large but it takes a few minutes of shuffling and arranging your extremities to fit in it together with comfort. You are leaning your back on his chest, his arms on the edges of the tub, your hand sliding up and down his thigh. "We need a bigger tub, my lord," his head is dropped back and eyes are closed. He hums in agreement. "And a hot water chute."

He chuckles. "A what?"

"A hot water chute. On the upper floor you have a stove that heats up water in a cauldron, you pull a string and a chute opens up in the ceiling. The cauldron topples. The water falls into a tub." He opens one eye.

"Have you thought of it yourself or have seen it somewhere?"

"Have thought of it myself. But I am sure such ingenuine craftsmen as Dwarves can conjure such a simple construction. I love taking baths. And I am hoping you will join me, my lord. Every day."

You slide your palm higher up his thigh, and the member twitches. He exhales. "Whatever you wish for, my lady." You scrape your nails in the rough hair there, and he groans. "The bath will conclude very fast if you continue such ministrations, my Queen."

"Well, we have taken baths in the morning, so we just need to wash off the stains and we can return to bed."

"To do what exactly?" The blue eyes are full of mirth. You wiggle your backside a bit pointedly pressing your buttocks into his member.

"I think it is time for a lesson in verbal art." He guffaws.

"You are endlessly inappropriate, my lady."

"You know nothing of my inappropriateness yet, my Lord." Your voice is full of promise.

"Oh, I can't wait," he kisses behind your ear, and you tilt your head to give him more access. "Luckily I have my whole life to explore it, my Queen."


	12. Treats and Desserts

**A/N: This one is yet another straightforward smut. Beware or enjoy, up to you, my lovelies :)**

The King and his wife are having a late supper in a small dining room adjoint to their bedroom. It has been three weeks since their wedding, the first one almost fully spent in their bedchamber, the ones after it slightly less concupiscent, but still their nights and, honestly speaking, at least parts of their days are spent in each other's arms. The emotion the King Under the Mountain is mostly experiencing these days is an amused astoundment. Being a Dwarf married to a woman of Men, he expected his married life to be full of restricting himself and suppressing libidinous urges. None of that is happening. His little Queen, endlessly demure and decorous in her odd white attires, is an eager insatiable explorer of the world of carnal pleasures. By now they have delved into most possible positions, and he has a new idea tonight. He twirls a fork in his fingers, watching with pleasure how she is finishing the third piece of roasted lamb. She has a voracious appetite and impeccable manners. She feels his gaze and lifts her eyes.

"Do you have a habit of pleasuring yourself, my Queen?" He keeps his tone even and mundane, a polite friendly interest on his face. She blinks and predictably blushes furiously. He adores the blushing. He puts a piece of lamb in his mouth and chews nonchalantly. She is frozen with her fork mid-air.

"Occasionally," she answers carefully. He chuckles, she is always cautious in her words, except perhaps in her screaming in throes of passion. That he enjoys very much. He hums noncommittally and goes back to his dinner. She is still sitting unmoving. He picks up his ale, smirks into his mug and throws her a look over the rim of it. Her delicate nose twitches, and she puts the fork on her plate. "With all honesty..." She sounds slightly exasperated, and he chuckles again.

"Even now?" He would expect her to be more than satisfied these days, and perhaps even tired of any sort of sensuality, but she suddenly blushes some more and picks up her fork quickly. "Oh?.." She stuffs a large piece of roasted carrot into her mouth and pretends to be very interested in the content of her plate. He guffaws. He cannot believe it, he managed to underestimate her appetites! "When do you even find the time?" She is still chewing, her eyes on the wall to her right. He cocks his brow, the silence in the room tense, forcing her to swallow with difficulty and squirm on her chair. He pushes his chair back and lunges towards her. He pushes her plate and cutlery onto the floor. She squeals from surprise when his hands pick her up under her arms, and he props her on the table. She readily spread her legs, and he presses into her body. She is obviously expecting a kiss, but he stops a few inches away from her lips. "Show me..."

"What?" She squeaks, and her eyes open wide.

He leans in, his nose almost touching hers, and murmurs, "Show me how you do it." She gulps, delicate pale throat moves, and he quickly kisses her red lips. "I want to see." Her lashes flutter as they always do when she is nervous, and she tilts her head, studying his face. And then she licks her lips and lifts her chin. She has made up her mind, and a retaliation is coming. He cannot wait.

"Only if you return the favour," her voice is coarse, but she is keeping their eyes locked, and he smirks. He slowly sits back in the chair she occupied just a moment ago and plants his feet on the floor, his knees spread wide.

They are both barefoot, the room hot from the heat coming from the fireplace, she is clad in one of her white lace home dresses, high buttoned up collar and a wide belt, adorned with opulent gems, her opal necklace, heavy on her neck, and matching earrings. He is certain there is just an undertunic and bloomers underneath this dress, if any. In their chambers she often neglects undergarments, they do tend to get in the way.

"Are we not going to the bedroom, my lord?" The little Queen lifts her brows. She still looks slightly anxious, and he momentarily wonders if the game he started is too risque, when suddenly she places her small feet on the armrests of the chair, near his elbows he put there, and smiles to him, her eyes narrowed. "Or am I a dessert in your understanding, my King?"

"My heart," his large hands encircle her slender ankles, he rubs the small round bones with his thumbs, and then his palms slide up onto her calves and higher, bunching up her skirts, "You are the best of the treats there exist in the world." He pushes the skirts over her bent knees and drops his eyes between her legs. He was right, there are no undergarments underneath her petticoat. He lifts his eyes and meets hers, the expression in her amber irises hungry but defiant. She lifts one brow, and her hand lies on her knee.

"I am not an apple tart you can unwrap at your first whim and sink your finger in the moist filling, my lord," her tone is purposefully grumpy, and he roars with laughter. His lewd little Queen is an endless delight! Her eyes are sparkling with amusement, and the strong delicate fingers are drawing circles on the slender thigh just an inch above her knee.

"And how often do you indulge in such delicacies, my heart?" His eyes are roaming her face, from the red lips she licked to the feverish blush on her cheekbones.

"Before you sauntered in my infirmary, my lord, not more than once a week. Carnal pleasures were hardly on my mind." He hums showing he is listening and quickly works on the belt of his trousers. "After we arrived to Erebor but before the wedding..." Her palm slides higher, she shifts her feet for more stability and leans back, supporting herself on the straight left arm.

"Yes?"

"Quite a lot…" Her voice is slightly raspy, but her hand is not moving higher than before. He understands she is hesitant, but her folds are glistening, and he has learnt to read her face by now. She is slightly nervous, but willing. He is hoping that by now she knows she can halt him if he is taking it too far.

"How many times a day?" She lifts her brows again. He smiles to her, and she chuckles nervously.

"You are endlessly inappropriate, my lord. Am I not to have any privacy? Are even my lecherous fantasies suddenly to become your property?" His hand pauses on the buttons on his crotch, and he gives her an attentive look.

"And what exactly do they entitle, these lecherous fantasies of yours?" His voice is a bit too tense for bedchamber talk, and he realizes he is jealous. He tells himself he is being absurd, and then his mind turns around again, and he ponders her words again. "What do you think about in the moments of your privacy?" She laughs and to his shock presses her small foot over his erection.

"How fast you go from a reprobate lecher to a suspicious husband, my lord!" She rubs her foot over his length through the linen of his trousers, but he cannot seem to return to the light mood of a few instants ago. She takes pity and concedes, "Yesterday while you were retarded at the counsel with the Elders, I was waiting for you in the bedchambers, and an image of your throne came to my mind, my King..." He suddenly feels merry and snorts.

"It is not very comfortable, my Queen."

"How would I know, my lord? I have never sat on it, but you tend to look rather appetising on it." He smiles and strokes her foot still pressed over his crotch. He then tickles the little pink toes, and she jerks it back with a small giggle. She puts it back on the armrest, open in front of him, and he lowers his eyes again. He sees that her fingers travelled higher, on the inner thigh, and then his mouth waters. Her center is moist, her juices pooling on the pink folds.

"It is indeed wide enough for the two of us..." He opens up his trousers and frees his erection from the breeches.

"I did not envision sitting on it, my lord. In my mind I was kneeling in front of it. You tend to put your feet wide when sitting on it." He chokes and stares at her. She is blushing furiously, but she is still playing the game. The last thing he wants is to cause any discomfort for her. He ponders how he can mildly inquire if she would prefer to end it or to continue, when she murmurs, "And the answer to your previous question is six, sometimes seven. Once or twice these days, of course."

"When?!" He exclaims, and she grins back at him.

"Well, thank Maiar, we do not spend every possible minute together! That would be a calamity for a marriage! I have my study, and you are often away on the state matters. And you, my lord?" She points at his member with her eyes, and his fingers lock around its base.

"Not since we wedded," he is almost laughing now. Here goes the famous libidinousness of the Dwarves! Not only he does not require any more sensuality besides the one with his wife, he seems to be incapable to satisfy one small woman of Men! "Except those four days last week, of course." He is referring to her monthly pains. She hums in agreement, but then backtracks.

"But we have indulged in oral pleasures!"

"It is not the same. Nothing compares to this," he leans ahead in the chair and stretches his hand towards her center, but she suddenly moves away from his fingers.

"No," her tone is authoritative, and he freezes. His jaw slacks. He has never before been refused a touch to her body. "These are not the rules of this engagement, my King. Each one of us is left to his or her own devices. You can watch, but you cannot touch." He shortly thinks that while he might have been the one who came up with the game, he is definitely not the one winning it. The tip of her delicate index finger brushes the dark curls between her legs. He loves the curls, they are surprisingly soft, a deep chestnut colour, and he swallows with difficulty.

He falls back into the chair and deftly encircles his member. She licks her lips and shifts to see better. "I have never seen a man do that, my lord." He can see pulse frantically beating on her neck. She is curious, but he can understand her indecisiveness. Her willingness to push through her own inhibitions arouses him to no end. He strokes his member demonstratively, and she tilts her head. "Do it again." Her tone is assured, and he hikes up his brows. And there he thought he was educating and somewhat corrupting his little wife! He repeats the action, and she bites into her bottom lip. "I am much gentler with it, my lord. Am I not doing it right?" Trust her to use this evening to improve her skills. He admires her ambitious character but at the moment he just wants her to enjoy herself.

"My heart, my hand cannot even come close to the rapture you give me. And you are not moving yours," he looks into her eyes, hoping she can catch up on his mood, and she blink.

"I do not know if you are aware, my lord, but women require emotional and mental stimulation for such acts, it is not a mechanical action..." In the stark contrast with her own words, she draws a confident circle over her glistening curls with her index and middle fingers pressed together, and he sees her eyes darken. "We need fantasies..." Her fingers move rhythmically, brushing her clit with the very tips, on each twirl, and he forget about his own hand. "We envision acts… Positions… Favorite anatomical parts..." That draws his attention.

"Indeed?" He meets her burning eyes. "Such as?" She lifts one brow and gives him a hungry look over. He cannot contain another chuckle. He is starting to doubt who is the predator and who is the prey in the room.

"Hands, eyes, lips, women are romantic creatures..." She is shamelessly lying, and he grins. She cannot keep the straight face and snorts. "Shoulders, upper arms, hips, buttocks..."

"Now, my treasure, that sounds more truthful," he is laughing, and she suddenly shifts and puts her miniscule foot on his chest. His nose catches the fragrance of her arousal, and his hand on him starts moving. She follows his example, and he holds his breath when he sees her tiny index finger slowly sink between her folds. She moves it in and out couple times, and then swirls it in a tight circle over her clit. He is enjoying the feeling of her narrow sole on his pectoral muscles, a strangely dominating gesture for his little wife.

"I am not very good at this, my lord," she breathes out, but he feels like arguing. All she does seems to work wonders for his arousal. "I often have trouble reaching release on my own..." She is breathy now, and he cannot seem to decide what to pay more attention to. His eyes dart between her flushed face, her chest heaving, and her fingers moving on her center. He has forgotten about his hand again, and then his member twitches in his hand demanding attention. "And I am rather high-strung at the moment, you are distracting me..." He abandons his erection and moves back in the chair, steepling his fingers and catching her eyes.

"How am I distracting you, my heart? By talking? By looking?.. By catching the fragrance of your desire?" His voice is but a coarse rasp, and her body jolts.

"I have always considered myself rather cold, not libidinous… I have trouble relinquishing my composure..." He stares at her aghast. His opinion of her is quite the opposite. "It is only with you that all my control slips..." She closes her eyes, her fingers moving on her, and he smirks darkly. "So when I am alone, I need to think of you…" She is magnificent, her head dropped back, her mad orange curls having escaped the do. His eyes trail over the pale graceful neck and tense torso. Her next sentence is a whimper and a moan, and he sits up straighter, "But then it is not enough..." His fingers clench on the carved armrests, but he is quiet, waiting for her to continue. He has studied her body well, he knows that one moment when her customary reserve slips, and her sensual nature bursts on the surface. She is close to that edge, and he is suppressing his unreasonable possessiveness not to scare that magnificent moment of her giving up her inhibitions. "I start imagining such improper things, such locations, such positions..." She moans and takes a deep breath in with an open mouth. He gathers all his will not to jump into action. He can see her skin is flushed, he knows it is of the most exquisite tinge of pink under the demure collar and down between her glorious small breasts at the moment, and his eyes are glued to her fingers.

"Sink your finger into yourself, my heart..."

"It does not help, it usually only makes it worse… I cannot think when you are in the room..." She makes a sudden loud, frustrated sound and with a thud falls back on the table. Her skirts fall hiding her center from him, and he jumps on his feet. He stands near the table, looming over her, and she slowly opens her eyes. She looks almost vexed, he is now familiar with the expression. The hungry, irritated look she acquires when a release escapes her is a rare spectacle, only seen perhaps in the early hours of morning, after a night of lechery, when she would be struggling for her seventh release, but he recognizes it. He quickly leans down and kisses her lips featherly.

"Let me help..."

"Yes, please," she interrupts eagerly, and the game becomes exciting again.

"I will not touch you, my Queen. You will still have to do all the work." She is looking at him with doubt. "But we shall talk about your fantasies… Close your eyes." She complies, but he can see her lips are pressed in a stern line. With one hand he pulls the white lace up, making sure not to touch the skin, and then picks up her right wrist with his thumb and index finger and carefully places over her center. He he sees her fingers lie on her curls again. Her tiny digits are slightly shaking, and he leans in and kissed her cheek. "Zurzuh, yasithuh?" _Are you alright, wife of mine?_ Her lips open slightly, and she exhales shakily. And then she nods. Her lips tremble and lashes flutter. "Sataf izzugh, kurdu." _Eyes closed, my heart. _Her fingers are on her folds, but they do not move.

He is standing over her, and it takes all his willpower not to bend down and press his lips to her skin all over her body. He knows the smell, lilac and something else, fresh and evasive, he knows the flavour, he can imagine the slightly salty taste, she is slightly trembling, he can see perspiration on her temples. "Tell me your favourite fantasy, my heart." She hesitates, and he leans to her ear, "Please..." She gasps, and he cannot help but cheat a bit. He presses his lips to her ear, catches her lobe between them, and from the corner of his eye he sees her fingers make the first tentative movement.

"I have recently been thinking of copulating in a public place..." He hums, one of his hands on the table near her head, another one firmly grasping his member. He starts moving his fisted hand up and down his length, in slow but decisive strokes, matching her movements. "Not seen by others, but in a constant danger of being caught..." He smirks and shakes his head. She is full of exhilarating surprises! His erection is full, he feels the first drop of liquid spreading on his palm and the hot length, and his eyes run from her digits brushing her clit, to her arched upper body, to the now exposed throat, the buttons on her collar partially having opened in her thrashing. He is overwhelmed with desire to sink his teeth into her neck, mark the tender skin, but he clenches his teeth. She is spread in front of him, just a few inches away from his body. He has planted his feet wide on the floor, veins bulging on the arm supporting him above the table, and his hand starts moving faster. "Somewhere in a frequented passage, behind a curtain… I want you to turn me to face the wall and pick up my skirts..." He groans from the double image, the one he sees in front of him and the one she is painting. She is only an inch shorter than him, the position she is describing has shown itself very convenient. "I feel speared through with your member… Each movement of your hips pushing me into the wall… My feet off the ground with each thrust..." She speaks louder and more and more feverishly, her fingers frantically rubbing her clit, and he feels his release building. He decides to speed up their game.

"The curtain moves, and someone might notice..." He growls, and she whimpers.

"The King with his trousers around his nankles, bollocks deep in his wife..." His body jolts almost painfully from the obscenities he was not aware she was even capable of pronouncing, and he returns the favour.

"His cock entering her with a loud wet noise, his testes slapping her..." He does not get to finish his phrase, she wails throaty, her back arches on the table, only her buttocks and the back of her head touching the wood, he can see her fingers splay, every muscle in her body taut and trembling from strain, and he releases, his seed spilling on the table near her body. He drops his head, loud raspy breaths escaping his throat. He strokes his member a few more times, milking his climax, some of his seed splashing on her dress. They both are dizzy, she pressed her hand over her eyes, the elbow of his supporting arm quaking visibly.

She starts laughing first, a small sniggering, and then open laughter, silver and merry. He chuckles as well and lifts his eyes at her. Her amber eyes are shiny, still warm after her rapture and endlessly surprised, and he guffaws.

"I will never be able to eat on this table again," she utters, panting from laughter now, and he lunges ahead and pressed his lips to hers tenderly. She wraps one arm around his neck, keeping the one she used on herself still on her body, and it makes him laugh even more. He straightens up and sways noticeably. Then he looks down and sees his trousers indeed around his ankles and the disordered state of her dress. She looks as well and picks up a napkin from the table. As comfortable as she seems with having four maids and a battalion of other help these days, she would never leave such untidiness in any of their rooms. He pulls up his trousers, and she sits up. They clean up together, and he can see she is drowsy as she always is after exceptionally rampant release. He picks her up under her arms and helps her off the table. For an instant she is pressed into him flush, and he quickly presses his lips to hers again.

He wraps his arm around her shoulders, and they walk into the bedchambers in comfortable silence. There is a small smile playing on her lips, and he yawns zestfully. They quickly tear off their clothes and slide under the covers, their bodies intertwining in familiar slow movements, just settling for sleep, but still bestowing each other with small caresses until their bodies are arranged in their customary tight embrace. Before she succumbs to sleep, she tenderly kisses the corner of his lips. He returns the kiss. His last caress before sleep takes him is to run his fingers on her shoulder blades. He hums in pleasure but she does not answer him, her breathing already deep and even.


	13. A Dwarf and a Ginger

Thorin opened one eye and looked at his wife. She was sitting on the window sill of their bath chambers, her eyes fixed on something behind the stained glass window. He saw that her lips were pressed in a distressed line, she seemed to be frowning, and her fingers were worrying a tassel at the end of her robe's belt.

"Kurdu?" She shook off her pensiveness and turned to him, her face calm and undisturbed. It was one of those times when she would push her thoughts at the back of her mind and fully focus on him. It was one of the merits in this marriage for him. They both had separate spheres of life, while they were there for each other when a need would arise. Today though, softened by a hot bath he was lazily reposing in, and excellent wine in a goblet in his hand, he wanted to address her vexation even though she tried to conceal it from him. "What worries you, my heart?"

She rose from her seat and walked up to him. There was a small stool near the tub, she would customarily sit on it when attending to his hair, and she sat down, tucking one leg under her. She placed her forearms on the edge of the tab and rested her chin on them.

"I have nothing to be vexed about, my King," her tone was melancholic, "I am overwhelmed by feminine ungrounded gloom."

He cocked a brow and took a sip from his glass. "If it is ungrounded, why then?" She looked at him from a corner of her eye, odd expression in her slanted amber eyes.

"It is a female thing."

"Is it that time of the month?" He sincerely tried to be helpful, but she gave him a sarcastic look.

"That would be a very convenient explanation, wouldn't it, my lord?"

"It would be at least some sort of explanation." He chuckled. "If your sorrow has no grounds and you have no explanation for it, should it even exist?" She straightened up and puffed some air out.

"It is amazing how insensitive your kind is, my lord," her tone was sardonic, and she busied herself with unbraiding her opulent orange curls.

"Dwarves?"

"Men," she grumbled and looked at him. "It is not all simple and organised in little boxes for us, women. We are more flexible, more perceptive, and consequently more attuned to moods. We also do not think in a straight dull line like men do. And sometimes when everything is peaceful and content in our life and our marriage, we might still feel unattractive and unworthy." She blurted it all on one breath, and he tilted his head. She halted and blinked. "Oh, Maiar, it is perhaps that time of the month," she mumbled embarrassed and started getting up. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her down and towards him.

"Thorin, I'm dressed..." She squeaked but he shifted and cut her under her knees with his other arm. He deftly deposited her on his lap, her white velvet nightgown quickly soaking with water.

"Are you feeling unworthy and unattractive, my Queen?"

"Yes," she whispered and hid her face into his neck. Her small hand lay on his chest, and she stroked his chesthair in a funny childish gesture, like a youngling would pet a cat. "Forgive me, there is obviously no reason for my agitation, but just sometimes..." He hummed encouraging her to talk while untying the belt on her robe.

"Thorin," her voice was small and unsure, "Could you..?"

"Yes, my heart?" He murmured and shifted to look into her face.

"Could you not undress me now? I am not in the mood for..." She trailed away and his hand, which he was planning to push in the opening of her robe and cup her breast with, froze. He felt slightly irritated, he wasn't used to be refused her body, but then he sighed and arranged her more comfortably on his lap.

They sat in the hot water for a bit, he was absent-mindedly running his fingers through her hair, and then he returned his attention to his small wife. She was once again frowning, and he picked her up under her arms and sat her up to look into her face.

"Well, now, my Queen, what do we have in here?" He smiled to her and ran the pulp on his index finger on the delicate bridge of her turn up nose.

"In here, honourable King Under the Mountain, we have an enticing Dwarf and a skinny ginger," she bit back in a slightly irritated tone, and he guffawed. She was being absurd. More so, she was being grumpy and was seemingly getting some sort of grouchy pleasure out of her own discontent.

"That needs investigating," he feigned a serious tone and quickly untied her belt. She continued to pout but didn't express any unwillingness. His eyes fell on her small perky breasts, their tips taut and bright red. He brushed the tips of his fingers first on the underside of them, and then down her ribcage and along her sides. "You are indeed ickle, my heart." He looked at her hair and chuckled again. "And a ginger." She rolled her eyes in an uncharacteristic gesture, her usual regal decorum foregone, and he barked a short laughter. "It is your turn, my heart, now you should be investigating and confirming that indeed we have an enticing Dwarf somewhere here in this spacious bath." She was obviously torn between holding on to her foul mood and joining his game. She tried to frown but the corners of her wide red mouth twitched, and with a sigh she shook the robe off her shoulders. He deftly picked it up and threw it out of the bath. The water reached right under her breasts, the tips puckered in the colder air, and since he knew his wife well, he was certain from arousal as well. She placed her palms on his chest, splaying her fingers on his pectoral muscles, and then she lightly scraped her nails on his skin.

"See?" She murmured, and he saw her eyes darken. "Solid body, rough skin, battle scars, a fair amount of fur..." She rolled the constant in the last word, and he felt his member swell. Her fingers travelled on his ribcage, one tiny index finger tracing a jagged wide scar from the White Warg's teeth. She lifted her eyes and met his stare. "Like I said, an enticing Dwarf." He cupped the back of her head and led her mouth to his. Her lips were warm and opened willingly for him. He felt her sleek warm tongue snake into his mouth, and he groaned into the kiss. His hands clenched on her sides, and he bucked his hips. She leaned in, her hands lay on the edge of the bath on two sides of his head, and the angle was just right for him to slide into her and satisfy his hunger. He pushed his palms under her buttocks and lifted her to guide her hips onto his length. And then he caught the expression on her face. Her jaw tense, eyes hollow and distant, she had bitten into her bottom lip. He didn't want to see such expression on this beloved wife's face. He needed her trusting, warm, all his, open and giving, and sharing herself with him, and accepting him fully. He didn't need her body. He greedily wanted to possess the whole of her.

He sat up, carefully lowering her on his lap, foregoing his erection. "My heart," his voice was deep and warm, and he quickly pressed his lips to her cheek. Her eyes widened from such a chaste caress. "We need to continue our investigation." She looked at him not understanding, and he leaned back, his hands once again lying on her breasts. "So, we have here… Breasts…" Her brows jumped up in baffled surprise. "Just the perfect size for my palms, see how they fit?" He looked into her eyes as if actually asking for a confirmation. "They are soft and firm at the same time, just the perfect balance between the two, and these," he brushed his thumbs over her tips, "So graceful, so delicate, so enticing..." He let his hungry eyes linger on the red of the peaks, and then he met her eyes. They were still perplexed. "And this part, oh how much I enjoy this part," he ran his fingers over her clavicles and made a small swirl of a caress in the hollow between them, "The neck is exquisite..." Her pressed his palm onto the back of her neck, his thumb tenderly caressing her throat, and she moaned. "Let us investigate the legs, I will leave the best part for the last."

"Buttocks?" Her voice was raspy, but he heard the trace of her usual teasing in it.

"Face, my heart. I am surprised at your raunchiness," he feigned indignation, and she giggled. He smirked smugly, that was exactly the effect he was hoping for.

"So the legs..." He rubbed her thighs, the tips of his fingers indeed brushing her buttocks. He was very fond of them, round small spheres that drove him into sensual frenzy, sometimes resulting in teeth marks on her pale skin, sometimes in hours of oral caresses after which her voice would be raspy from screams of rapture and her skin flushed from the scraping of his beard.

He moved his palms lower, drew several circles on her knees with his thumbs, and after stroking her slender shapely calves he encircled her ankles. "Magnificent... So quick, so appetising… All this pitter patter around my mountain..." He murmured and met her eyes. She was studying his expression, but he noticed that she looked increasingly more pleased and relaxed. He slightly rose, pressed a small kiss to her shoulder, and returned to his previous position. "Where was I? Oh right, the feet..." He tickled the little pink toes, and she giggled louder. He rubbed the thumbs to her soils and licked his lips. "Oh the little toes… And the heels some little Queen is so fond of digging into my backside..." He lifted one brow suggestively, and she blushed. He chuckled. "Someone seems to be confusing her husband with a pony, all this spurring..." She bit into her bottom lip and threw him a flirty look. He roamed her with his eyes, all her body, flushed from shyness and excitement. And then he gasped in a feigned terror, "Mahal, I forgot the shoulders! That is unforgivable!" His palms lay on the delicate forearms, and then he moved his hands slowly up, only the tips of his digits brushing her flesh, causing goosebumps run on her smooth, as if glowing skin. He continued his journey, along her exquisite neck. He cupped her face, his index finger under her small burning ears, his thumbs finally on the delicate bones of her jaw.

"Well, my Queen, here we are at last…"

"Are we?" She breathed out, her long lashes fluttered, and a flurry of emotions splashed in her eyes. He allowed himself a long lingering look at her features, high cheekbones, turn-up nose peppered with freckles, her unusual red mouth, and he sat up sharply, wrapped his arms around her middle tightly and bumped his nose to hers.

"I want our children to bear your features, Wren of Enedwaith." She gasped and moved away to look in his eyes. Her pupils dilated, she was peering at him in sheer disbelief. He withstood her inspection, knowing the ernesty and love she could see in his eyes. Her lips started trembling, and he saw her extraordinary eyes fill with tears.

She sobbed and threw her arms around his neck. He pressed her into him, strangely emotional himself, and they sat like that for a few silent minutes. He cleared his throat, pretending that it hadn't been constricted by mawkish emotions just now, and he felt her take a deep breath in. She moved back, and he saw her cheeks were wet. Her eyes were merry though, and she suddenly shoved his shoulder.

"That would be a calamity," her voice was shaking almost unnoticeably, "A ginger on the throne of Durin." He guffawed, and cupping her head he pulled her into a deep kiss.

They came out of the bath when the water was completely cold, and they ran into the bed chambers to quickly slide under the covers. He was rubbing her small feet to warm them up, his hands as if against his will sliding higher and quickly starting to wander her small delicious body, her goose bumps covered skin heating up and adorable pink flush spreading on her chest and collar bones. He flipped her on her stomach and rubbed his beard covered cheek to her buttock. She giggled and stretched on the sheets. He covered her body with his and whispered into her ear. "So, have you learn your lesson, my Queen?"

"I have," she purred, and he caught her mouth in an askew kiss over her shoulder.

"So what do we have here?"

"An enticing Dwarf and a very happy Queen." He tut-tutted and bit her shoulder gently.

"No, my heart, a very happy King and a bewitching ginger. Well, apparently more education is required." She didn't seem to mind.


	14. The Queen of Erebor

**A/N: I'm floating in a daze of adoration due to the new DoS gifs popping up in the net. Just a small drabble.**

* * *

**The Queen of Erebor**

* * *

She falls on the sheets, sweaty and weak, her hands fly to her mad curls, "I am the Queen of Erebor..." He is chuckling, criminally raspy just like her, and rolls on his stomach to look at her. She is splayed, arms open like the wings of a bird, on the sheets, rumpled and wet from their exploits, covers scattered on the floor.

"You are indeed, my heart, but what brought that on?" She laughs openly and merrily, throwing her slender arm over her eyes.

"I did not realise I said it out loud..."

"So while you were supposed to be enjoying your first intimacy in such position, you were considering your new status, my Queen?" He is looking her over, and she know it. Blush starts spilling over the pale skin, and he considers starting the next bout. She lowers her arm and looks at him.

"I have very much enjoyed this position, my King," her tone is playful. "I seem to be rather fond of holding the reins." He chuckles throatily.

"That you do, my heart. You will be a magnificent Queen." His tone is suddenly serious and sincere, and she smiles to him shyly. The unasked question is in her eyes, and he nods. "I have chosen wisely." She straddles him, and he grabs her buttocks.

"Shall we continue our celebration of my coronation?" She asks, leans in and bites into the muscles on his chest. He guffaws and gestures her to proceed to her liking.

* * *

Thorin is walking along a passage when loud voices from behind a closed door make him stop. He has never before heard his wife raise her voice thusly.

"I will not tolerate my orders to be ignored and especially when they have been so explicitly expressed!"

"I cannot allow this to happen," Thorin's sister's voice is low and menacing.

"You do not have the right to allow," the Queen voice is firm and haughty, and Thorin shakes his head in disbelief. "I am the Queen of Erebor, my orders are not to be disputed. I am done talking, Dis, I have matters to attend. I expect such insolence to never happen again."

There are steps approaching the door, and he steps back as if he has just appeared from around the corner. His wife steps out, blush flaming on her high cheekbones, her usual run away curls in a halo around her face. She stops and stares at him, quite obviously asking herself how much he has heard. He grabs her hand and drags her in the nearest room. The door closes behind them, and he pushes her on the nearest table. She giggles, nothing of the regal warrior Queen left in her, her wide mouth in a happy grin, little hands greedy, and lips soft.

* * *

A basin flies across the room and hits the door with a bang. The screams are getting louder, and a mug follows. She is kicking, and he wonders if she can actually break his wrist if she continues twisting it in her strong hands.

"My Queen, perhaps some draught?" The healer asks patiently. The answer she yells into his face in Khuzdul makes the King and the healers jerk their brows up in shock. Such expressions would be too obscene for a brothel. She rolls on her side and pulled her knees up. She is still painfully grasping his hand. One of the healers leans to the King's ear to express their concern.

"No draughts, it could meddle the child!" She barks and then screams in agony again.

"The child is big, my Queen, we have to take precautions." She grabs Thorin's wrist even firmer and pulls him down to her face.

"Make him shut up! I am tired of them fussing around me!" Another wave of excruciating ache quakes her body, and she grits her teeth. Her orange curls are stuck to her sweaty forehead. "I am the Queen of Erebor, I am strong enough to deliver this child on my own. If he wants to keep his head, I need to be left alone to do my job!"

Thorin gestures the healer away and watches his wife, her jaw set stubbornly, breathe through the next painful shudder. She swears again, this time in Common Speech, and he smiles. She is the Queen Erebor will never be worthy of.


	15. Not On His Watch

**A/N: It is sort of Christmas smut in this universe as well :) It is silly and comical, and I just wanted Wren in mitts and a fur hood :) And a snowman :) Inspired by discussion with RagdollPrincess on Dwarven protectiveness over their women.**

* * *

Thorin is worried. His little Queen is half way through her parturiency, and he is restless. He is a Dwarf, and their protectiveness of their spouses becomes an almost animalistic urge when a child is on the way. And at the moment his yasith is wandering a slippery balcony. Instead of sitting in a well-lit, warm room, with a firepit and soft rugs covering the floor, the Queen is plodding through the snow, her round delicious body wrapped in a clearly insufficient amount of layers. Her cheeks and the tip of her delicate nose are pink, white fur of the hood surrounding her face, and she is poking a snow drift with a stick. What in Mahal's name can she possibly find interesting there?

She bends down and starts making a snowball between small fur lined mittens. And then she is rolling the ball, into a bigger one, and soon enough it becomes clear the Queen is building a snowman. Thorin is ready to start bangining his head to the column he is hiding behind, keeping his vigilance. She can slip! There might be ice patches on the stone floor of the balcony! She might catch cold!

His hands are freezing, he is undressed, he was working in his study and just came to check on her, and now he is quickly losing sensation in his limbs. The snowman is finally complete, she fishes a carrot out of the pocket of her white fur cloak, and then two pieces of coal are put as eyes, not before she uses one of them to draw the snowman a beard. She seems rather pleased with her creation and starts slowly walking back. Thorin dashes inside, only hoping none of his fingers are now to be amputated.

* * *

Thorin is worried again, his Queen is overworking herself. She has her responsibilities in the infirmary, and he is certain she should keep her distance from the sick, she is highly involved into Erebor diplomacy, she oversees the construction of the new halls, and the Erebor Library is being catalogued these days. And all this while carrying his son under her heart!

It is the middle of the day, and he is being informed that the Queen will take her lunch in her study instead of joining him in the dining hall of their chambers. She is overworking herself, and he is decisively marching to her study to put an end to this! Either she gives up half of her usual responsibilities, or he is locking her up in their chambers for the next eight months! He normally does not come to her rooms, they are keeping their day lives separate, but his mind is set.

He walks through the parlour attached to her study when he hears some soft noise from her study. He stops and then starts slowly approaching the door. He realises it is a moan, and his first thought is that she is hurt. He is almost ready to burst into the room, when he understands it is hardly a moan of pain. Indeed, he is very much familiar with the soft gasps and breathy moans that are coming from her study, and he sways.

Jealousy is the next emotion that floods him, and he hardly notices how his hand lies on his belt. There is no scabbard on it, he is in his house, and instinctively he looks around the room in search of a weapon that would inflict most damage upon a person he is to find there with his Queen, when thankfully a sane thought comes to his mind. Out of all possible explanations his little Queen pleasuring herself in the solitude of her study is the most logical one. He still picks up a heavy paperweight shaped like a war hog from the nearest table and creeps up to the door. He pushes it carefully and peeks through a crack.

She is indeed alone. She is reclining on a settee, her white skirts bunched up around her neat round stomach, and her tiny fingers are moving between her legs, somewhere in a cloud of silk underskirts. The red head is tossed back on the roll arm of the settee, lips half open, and his cock jerks. She is delectable!

"Oh, please… Oh yes..." Her voice is raspy, and she is biting into her bottom lip, "Oh, please, more..." Thorin smirks. He should not be watching but it is a mesmerizing spectacle, and he loves when she purrs in this voice, and he especially loves her 'please' and 'more.' Her fingers are moving increasingly faster, her chest is heaving, and she is moaning louder. He decides he has been imposing enough and starts slowly moving back, when she murmurs feverishly, "Oh, please, hurry up before he is back..."

That makes Thorin freeze in his tracks. Who 'he'?! Is he the 'he'?! She is rapidly approaching her release, and he escapes through the parlour. His jaws are clenched, and he realises he is still squeezing the paperweight in his hand, his knuckles white, when he is already in his study.

* * *

He spends all day distracted and irritable, and finally it is time to repose. He returns to his chambers, quickly takes a bath and strides into the bedchambers. His Queen is asleep, curled into a ball under the covers, orange curls scattered on the pillow, and he spends several minutes staring at her narrow back under white lace and agonising whether he should wake her up or demand explanation, or he should let his pregnant wife get her sleep. His concern for her heath wins over, and he slides under the covers. He repeats to himself that, surely, there must be some reasonable explanation for what happened. He stays on his side of the bed, fuming and sighing, and finally falls asleep.

He wakes up from the familiar and endlessly pleasurable sensation of his wife's deft little hands stroking his cock. He moans and tries to embrace her. That's when he understands that his hands are tied to the headboard, tightly and securely. He jerks, opens his eyes and stares at the silk scarfs around his wrists. His Queen is sitting between his wide spread legs and strong little palms are running up and down his length just the way he likes it.

"Now that I got your attention, my lord, we shall talk," the thin lace nightdress is framing her expectant body in the most enticing way, and she climbs on top of him and skillfully lowers herself on him. He groans. The burning slanted eyes are in front of his, and he knows he is in trouble. "Since this seems to be the only way to receive your full attention and make sure you hear what I have to say."

He opens his mouth to question her methods when she presses her index finger over his lips.

"Tst, tst, my lord, do not make me gag you." His cock inside her jerks in response to the commanding tone, "We are having a lesson in being an at least tolerable husband of a pregnant wife here, and you can ask your questions after the class." Her tone is haughty, and she settles more comfortably on him. She is tighter now that she is expecting, and he groans.

"Firstly, I am allowed to go for walks. Fresh air is beneficial for expectant mothers, and your lurking around could have actually scared me and rushed me into delivery before my term. If you wanted to build a snowman with me, you should have just asked." She places her hands on his wrists and then runs her nails down along the forearms, to the upper arms, and digs them into his shoulders.

"There were stairs there..." He mumbles, and she starts moving. He clenches his jaw.

"I can hardly see stairs attacking me, my lord."

"They were steep!" He is still fighting, but he is losing. She drawing a symbol of infinity with her hips, and he is praying to Mahal and all Forefathers.

"I am not invalid, my lord. I am a healthy energetic expectant woman, who is carrying a strong half-Dwarven baby." The nails rack the chest, and he jerks in the restrains. She barks a mocking laughter, she does know knots.

"Now to your today's transgression. Do I not get any privacy in my study?" His eyes, which he closed caught in the storm of pleasure raging in his loins, fly open. "I would assume I am allowed to enjoy some leisure time without being interrupted." One of her brows is cocked up sarcastically, and he understands he was played like a green youngling.

"I was coming to invite you… Mahal, help me… To invite you to join me… Oh… At meal..." She makes an exceptionally exquisite movement. "M'imnu Durin..." _By Durin's name._

"You were coming, my lord, to command me to drop everything I was doing and to sit in my chambers like a glass vase." She shifts, and now her movements are forceful, up and down his length, his tip hits a farthest corner when she sinks at him, and he thinks he is losing consciousness. He is tied down, his arms spread like a bird's wings. He has enough physical strength to break out of course, but if he damages her favourite bed he knows he will be sleeping in the forges for a moon.

"I cannot help it..." His tone is almost whining, "I am a Dwarf..."

"I am aware," she is slightly breathy now, but her rhythm does not sutter at the least. "And that is why I am allowing you to fuss around me, and you have my permission to accompany me wherever you want and treat me like a porcelain doll, but..." She presses her strong hands into his shoulders and punctuates her words with plummets down at him. "Do. Not. Think. Me. Dim. Or. Blind." She freezes on the top for an instant, his tip is inside her, and the muscles clench around his glans. And then slowly sliding down, each inch of his length properly caressed by her inner muscles, she is murmuring in his ear, "I am taking good care of your son, my King."

Thorin roars and releases. His hips are jumping up and down on the sheets several times, and then he sags down in his restrains. He is blind and deaf to the world for a few seconds, and then he rasps, "I will do my best, my Queen."

The scarves slide off his wrists, and he wraps his unfeeling arms around his little wife.

"Good enough for me. And now my turn." He jerks to object, "Oh do not fuss, Thorin. I do not mean the restrains, I mean the pleasure." The King does not need to be asked twice.


	16. The White Flag

He finds his Queen sitting on the floor of her wardrobe, her white skirts in a cloud around her, the top coat, velvet and fur, clasped with a heavy belt, adorned with gems, lighter gauzy dress underneath it. In her fingers, many opulent rings glistening in the candlelight, she is holding some piece of her extensive wardrobe. Large unrestrained tears are running down her face, she presses the piece of white cloth to her cheek, and sobs loudly. Thorin freezes in the doorframe. She lifts her eyes at him, endlessly miserable, red from her desperate crying.

"Kurdu…" She rarely lets her emotions run loose, and he feels discomforted. He is tired, the day was full of tricky negotiation with the envoys from Dain. As much as he loves his wife, he is in no mood to address her vexations. She quickly wipes her tears and stuffs the garment she had in her hands in a trunk. "What is it?" He doesn't want to sound irritated, but the voice betrays his mood.

"Nothing, nothing of importance," she tries to smile, but her lips are trembling. She gives him a quick attentive lookover and rises. "You look tired, my lord, you need a bath." She walks by him, gently patting his shoulder.

He slowly follows grateful for her consideration.

* * *

Later when they settle in bed, he pulls her into him. He is indeed exhausted, but his desire rises, and he strokes her hip gently. Her night dresses are exquisite lace, this one is heavy and wide, and he is pushing it aside, tangling in it and grumbling under his breath. She is lying on her back, watching him struggle, her brows slightly raised, she seems amused, and he puffs some air out.

"Is this entrapment intended to prevent me from fulfilling my marital duties?" His tone is irritated, and she snorts again.

"This entrapment is to allure and to make you burn with desire, which is exactly the effect it seemed to have on you last time I wore it, of which you have eloquently informed me in the throes of passion and even proved your sentiment by actions." The wordy sarcastic answer tells him she is not pleased with him. He is a man, he cannot stand such behaviour. If there is a fault on him, he prefers to be informed of it immediately, so he could either brush it off or grovel a wee bit, and then enjoy his marriage again. He gives her a glare, but she seems unaffected.

His hands are on her knees, still hidden under the cursed fabric, but they are wide spread, and he is tired. He just want to satisfy his hunger and go to sleep. He gives it a half thought to retreat and turn away from her, but even with the fractious expression on her face she is endlessly enticing. The curls are scattered on the pillow, one slender arm thrown over her forehead, the hand of another one relaxed on her chest, and he sighs. He won't be able to fall asleep, he is aroused, and now he is also annoyed. He sits up and grabs her ankles. He could say something, either loving or playful, and she would relinquish her irritation, she always does for him. He is grateful for her patience on any day but today. The strain of the negotiations made his temper rise, and he grabs the hem of the dress and pushes it to her waist. She once again does not refuse him but does not show much fervour either.

And then he remembers her crying in the wardrobe earlier, and he is livid. Is that what the reason of this behaviour is? Is he being punished for something that grieved her and he does not pertain to? He grabs her under her buttocks, jerks her towards him, and she makes a small squeak. Her legs are wide open, and he can just grab his organ in his hand and push into her. The chance is that there will not be much friction, she seems willing most of the time, and it is not as if she is refusing him.

There is an instant of hesitation from him, and then he encircles his cock, still not certain he will execute what he seems to be intending, when she whispers, "No..."

He freezes and closes his eyes. On one hand, he finally has a reason to start yelling. Not because she refused him, but because waited till the last moment. He looks into her face then, it is calm and unreadable, but he knows her well. Somewhere very deep in the slanted eyes he can see emotions splashing, and he is hardly equipped on a normal day to decipher the complicated workings of his wife's mind. Were he to lose his composure now, she would turn cold, collected, she has an impeccable ability to lock herself from him. He will still end up being the guilty one, he knows that by now. Asking her to stop behaving like that and trying to turn this night into tender and loving circumstances would make him look weak. He is suddenly tired and does not know how to proceed. If she was playing a game, she won.

He lets go of her hips and sits back on the bed, and then he pulls at the hem of her nightdress, covering her, and she is studying him. Even now he does not understand whether he has just performed exactly the trick she was training him to, or he did something she will be irritated by more. From all these unpleasant, alien thoughts he feels hemicrania rising, he is a man, he does not want to scrutinize emotional intricacies, so he does the only possible thing. He rises from the bed and leaves for the bath chambers.

* * *

He fumes in them for a few minutes, berating himself. He is hiding from his wife in bath chambers. He is irritated and honestly speaking sleepy, his arousal has passed, leaving him only more frustrated, and he picks up the tooth cleaning twig in annoyance. He realises that he is circling the room, chewing at the mint leaves, and then he throws them away and marches back into the bedchambers. He does not know what he is going to say, but it is unacceptable. Whatever it was she wanted, she just needed to say it, and he is no dog to be trained and disciplined!..

She is under the covers already, her back to him, curls on the pillow, sheets and duvets pulled almost covering her, and he stops with his mouth half open. Screaming at his sleeping wife would be even more ridiculous than coming here now, puffing like a war hog of Dain Ironfoot. Thorin understands he has reached the limit of his patience and decides that just going to sleep is the only solution he has available for him.

It takes him longer than usual to settle down, he is turning from side to side. Facing the copper hair of his wife feels offending, turning his back to her childish, they never sleep like that, and eventually he lies on his back and closes his eyes. He folds his hands on his chest and sighs. He is uncomfortable, he is hot in the tunic he didn't take off, the breeches seems to rub at him, and he squirms on the sheets, but stubbornly keeps his eyes closed.

"One of my dresses has come apart today." His wife's voice is even and calm, "It was one of the attires I had as my dowry… One of the dresses I bought for you when I still thought I would never see you again. In those seven year when all I had was one memory of you… And now it has to be discarded..."

He remains still and silent, he does not understand. She has three rooms full of attires, he understands there is sentimental value to those dresses from the trunk she brought with her to Erebor, but it should be merry in his mind. She did wait for him for seven years, it was excruciating for him too, but he came, and they are wed now. She is happy, she tells him that often. And what does it have to do with refusing him her body? And what is he to do now?

She turns in the darkness and the small hand lies on his chest, little fingers snaking the collar of his tunic. He almost feels like throwing it off, he is that aggravated, but he cannot. The long strong digits curl up, and she claws at his chest.

"Is there something you want, my lady?" He sounds peevish. A happy thought comes, perhaps she will apologise for her unreasonable behaviour, and he will not have to inspect what has gone wrong tonight, it will just be her female nerves, and it will be over. This thought makes him very merry, and he is waiting in anticipation. She will apologise, it will be forgotten, and she will take off the cursed nightdress. His organ rejoices, and he is almost ready to turn to her and touch her.

"I want my husband," her voice is a seductive purr, and his body reacts. But then he pauses. That is not exactly an apology. On the other hand, his desire has awoken already. He doubts for an instant and then throwing all thoughts aside he rolls on his side and grabs her around her waist.

* * *

She is bare, the silky cool skin is under his palm, and he growls and pulls her into him sharply. She arches, pressing her center to his erection, and the slender arms go around his neck. A weak thought thrashes in his mind, the aggravation of the night has not received closure, but her lips are on his, and his head is momentarily empty.

He pushes her underneath him, the knees are spread readily, and he places clumsy unaimed kisses on her face and neck while quickly shedding his tunic and breeches. Her hands are buried in his hair, she pushes him to her breasts, and he pulls one small teat into his mouth. There is a low lustful moan from her that he enjoys so much, and he cups her between her legs.

She is ready for him, wetness coats his fingers, she is spread on the bed, the covers have already slid on the floor, and looking her over he realises he is still irritated with her. He should be careful, when his temper is not controlled he tends to be rough. He rarely is with her, sometimes their passion overfloods them, but then they are in it together. At the moment he is almost blind to what she feels, an urge to seize her, to almost punish her for the efforts he had to make earlier nags at him, and he takes a deep breath, trying to reign his hunger. He might hurt her.

And then their eyes meet, hers half-lidded, clouded, but he then sees that the corners of her lips are curved down, and he cannot help it. He pushes away from her and flops on his bare backside on the bed.

"What have you done to me?" His voice is a low bellow, and her eyes fly wide open, and she sits up. Her face is confused, and it makes it even worse. "I am like a pup on a leash, you jerk, and I follow… I am muddled like a hysterical maiden! First, you are angry with me, and I do not know what I have done, then you refuse me, then you are willing..."

"I am willing..." She is watching him calmly again, and he is ready to weep.

"You were not before! Before… And then you were… And then you talked of the dress, and I do not understand!" He chops the air with his palm. He wants to grab her shoulders and shake her, or kiss her, or hurt her. "Would you just talk already?! Women are supposed to be talkative, never shutting up about their feelings!" He spits out the last word with disgust. "And you are quiet! You are always so... calm!" He is sitting on his marital bed, fully bare, the cursed erection is still very much present, curse the Dwarven libidinousness, his wife is bare as well, and he is yelling like a wounded war ram. "You are driving me mad! I am a man and a King, you cannot just… Jerk me!..." He stops making sense, and she jumps to him and wraps her arms around his neck. He could hardly understand his feelings, curse the feelings, before, now he is beyond perturbed. His arms fall on the bed passively, and he sighs. He has given up.

"Have you considered, my lord, that I do not understand much myself?" Her voice is even as usual, and he does not want to untangle her wordy statements. She is pressed to him, and he just wants his marriage to be simple and merry again. She moves away and looks at him.

"Just tell me what to do already…" His voice is quiet, and suddenly she laughs and grabs his ears.

"I do not have a slightest understanding what you should be doing. I am behaving horribly today, and by now a husband from Men would already smack me." He jerks his head up and stares at her.

"I am a Dwarf, we do not hit women," he grumbles, and her face wavers.

"I am fortunate then. I am a horrible wife today." Her cheeks are burning from embarrassment, and he suddenly sees the young uncertain girl he married. "I was upset, and instead of… handling it myself, I made your night difficult." She cups his face, and he sees her lips twist in distress. There are bitter lines in the corners of her red mouth, and he sees emotions splashing in her eyes. "Forgive me, I should not have behaved so. You did not deserve being treated this way." This is an apology he wanted, but if anything the past year with her taught him it is to listen. The apology is not the only thing he has heard out of what she said.

"You do not have to handle it yourself," he is struggling through the emotional talk, it is feels like pulling arrowheads out of muscles, but he needs closure. He still does not understand why this night went so wrong, and he does not want it to repeat. "You can talk to me. I do not understand half of the tumult happening in that mad head of yours, but I do not want to be later accused of not listening and then deprived of what is rightfully mine." He is starting to feel better, and she timidly smiles to his exaggerated snarling remarks. "I do not understand the significance of the dress, but if needed I can lament its tragic demise with you." That gains him a giggle. He is jesting but he is not ready to put this hassle aside. "So why was I refused?" She blushes harder and pulls at the corner of a sheet trying to cover herself. He grabs the sheet out of her hands and throws it aside. If she is to collect herself and hide from him again, he is going to have a rage fit.

"I do not know," she suddenly looks at him abashed, and he feels his jaw slack. That is very unlike her. "Because I have temper? Because I was difficult? I do not know what I was trying to achieve. You are not at fault… And I had nothing to punish you for… I was just being callous..." Her nose twitches in a nervous gesture, and she locks her hands on her lap. Her words are simple and honest, and understandable, and… surprising. He is looking at her face, feeling relieved, tension leaving his body. "And then I was willing… But you looked so angry, and I was… scared…"

"What?! Of me?!" He is staring at her in consternation.

"You are scary!" These words are so childish, the slanted eyes are wide open, and he starts laughing, loudly and with gusto. And then he grabs her under her arms and pulls her onto his lap. Her body is small, and light, and silky, and familiar, and he starts kissing her. She rushes to meet him, her hands fly to his hair, she buries her fingers into his waves, and he is laughing into her mouth now.

"Are you dim, Wren?" He asks between sloppy kisses, and she blinks in befuddlement. "I am whining like a youngling here, asking you to tell me what to do… I would have to kill myself if anybody knew how henpecked I was!" He notices he is not even irritated anymore. She looks as if he has just shared a great secret with her, and he roars with more frolics. "Fierce Dwarven warriors do not let their wives lead them by the nose." He presses his forehead to hers and rubs the tip of the nose to hers. She wraps her arms around his neck even tighter.

"I do not want to lead you by the nose," she speaks in a small voice, pressing her temple to his, hiding her face, and he chuckles, "Please, tell me when I am browbeating you, and I will stop. I do not want to be a nagging wife… I want to be a nice wife..."

"Just do not tell anybody how you are beguiling me with your body, and we will be in agreement," he is chaffing, and she snorts. She straightens up in his arms and gives him an earnest look.

"I promise, I will be direct and will not beguile you with my body." She pronounces it all with a very serious face, and he starts guffawing. "And I apologise."

"Apology accepted," he gives her a regal nod, and she suddenly twists and thrashes her body, and he ends up on his back, she is splayed on him, and she is placing kisses on his jaw, quickly sliding down to his chest. He drops his hands on the sheets, and finally everything is how it should be.

* * *

"I am very… very… sorry..." Hot, open-mouthed kisses are mixed with her words, and he guffaws again. "I… will… be… a good… wife… now..." Little bites and more kisses are peppered on his skin, and he drops his head back and closes his eyes. And then suddenly she stops, her lips already on his stomach, and he groans. "Am I beguiling you with my body again?" He looks down at her, wondering if she is indeed that cruel, but there is sincere question in her eyes, and he cups her jaw and brushes his thumb on her lips.

"Are you trying to achieve something that I have not given you otherwise?"

"Are we… in peace now?" She asks, her cheeks burning. It is very difficult to think when her mouth ghosts over his member, but he clenches his teeth and focuses.

"Yes."

"Then it is not beguiling," she affirms and wraps her lips around his head. Her mouth moves up and down his length, she is taking her time, movements slow and measured, just like he likes at the beginning, his tip slides down her relaxed throat, and she moans.

She gets carried away rather quickly, she claims she is fond of such acts, and he is starting to believe her, since she is sucking loudly, throaty moans vibrating through his flesh, her perky backside is in the air, and he knows that her juices are so abundant that her inner thighs are probably coated. There is a trick that he knows could even bring her over the edge while in the middle of this act, and he pushes his hand in the thick mass of her copper curls at the back of her head and gently presses her down, stuttering her rhythm. A loud choked moan is heard, and he smiles smugly. He released her, allowing her to return to her pattern, and then he pushes again, his tip hits the back of her throat, and she releases him, panting and making her usual mewling sounds.

"You are interrupting me, my lord," her voice is indecent, raspy, and he laughs. He feels so relieved after the ridiculous plight that was this night, that he grabs her upper arms and pulls her over him and seats her on him. She delicately wiped the corners of her lips with her thumb, and his member jerks under her from the view of the swollen red lips and the hunger burning in her eyes.

"What would my lord want now?" She purrs, and he smiles to her widely.

"Beguiling." She predictably sticks her tongue at him, and he throws her carefully off his body and rolls over her. "Your lord wants to bed his wife, and he wants to see her eyes. No hiding, no playing a cold reserved queen with me," his voice loses the playfulness, and she softly smiles and cups his face.

"I am all yours, Thorin."

He pushes his hands under her back, delicate shoulder blades familiar silky angles on his palms, and he pushes into her, met with openness, and tightness, and heat, her eyes are open, and he sees pupils dilate right in front of him, lips tremble, and he thrusts into her. She accepts him, keeping their gazes locked, emotions and sensations splashing in her eyes. He is moving into her, he knows she is fond of closing her eyes and savouring the sensations, but this time she is allowing him to see. Soft gasps fall from her lips with each plunge of his pelvis, and he grabs her leg and hikes it high, she is open even wider now, he is watching pleasure dancing in her ever changing irises, and he is the first to drop his eyes. He pushes his arms under her, envelops her and rolls on his side. He is moving slowly into her, her hand lies on the side of his face, fingers stroking his beard, and he pushes one leg between hers. It makes him enter her deeper, and her lips half open, her lashes flutter, and he catches her mouth. They are stretched on the sheets, their bodies intertwined, it seems to him they have never been that close, one of her legs is on top of him, and she rubs her inner thigh to his hip.

"Thorin..." She breathes out, he is moving gently, in languished savouring circular movement, her hand runs down his back, little fingers stroking the muscles along his spine, he sucks and nips her bottom lip, and hears something between a purr and a moan out of her. "Oh, it is almost too much..." She murmurs, and he sensually licks across her lips.

"Too much?" His thoughts are jumbled, all he has left is the feeling of her body, and the sweet heat spreading through his body from being with her.

"You are… There is nothing left of me..." She mewls, and he places his hand on her waist and pulls her even closer. She is whimpering now, and he is picking up speed. His thrusts are becoming forceful, with each movement he pushes her up, they are sliding on the sheets, and he feels she is clenching him more and more, and he slightly rises on one elbow, and pumps into her deeper and sharper, and she wails, reaching her climax. Her eyes roll back, her strong fingers digging into his shoulder, and he pushes her on her back, thrusting again and again, in a half finished, slightly awkward position, she is limp and flaccid under him, soft, hardly audible whines falling from her lips, and he spills his seed, the last thrusts harsh, his hips snapping, and she yelps, and he crashes on her.

He feels her shaking under him, but then her weak arms wrap around him. His leg is still between hers, and he feels a cramp coming. He is too sated to care. She takes a shuddered breath under him, her exhale tickles his ear, and he groans. They are entangled, and he can hardly understand which limbs are his.

"I do not want such misunderstandings ever again, but making peace is wonderful..." Her voice is trembling, and he coarsely chuckles.

"Maybe we should have some fraudulent misunderstandings then... Sometimes..."

"Sounds marvelous..." She is smiling, he can hear it in the voice, and with a grunt he rolls off her, pulling her in immediately and arranging her on his chest. He sees the lashes flutter closed, she is instantly sleepy after their love, and he cups the back of her head and kisses the relaxed, bright lips.

He closes his eyes as well, and then her fingers twitch on his chest and she murmurs, half asleep, "I want to be a nice wife..."

"You are the perfect wife," he smirks without opening his eyes. He doubts she hears him, her breathing is even again, and he falls into slumber as well.


	17. There For Him

**A/N: Details regarding Tauriel and Kili are from RagdollPrincess' _What the Future Brings_. That is her universe after all. The circumstances of the fight with Azog and BOFA are mix of the book and the film, and a bit of my own musings. This is that kind of verse, let's just roll with it :)**

* * *

Thorin screams, but it is in his sleep, no sound most likely escapes him, a low groan perhaps, his hand habitually slides under his pillow, fingers close around the familiar hilt, his whole body moves in a trained fluid motion, he rolls on his side, muscles contract and push him in the position he had been trained to take thousands of times, and he slashes with the blade. Three sharp thrusts of the mithril weapon follow, and only then he remembers where he is.

He screams, and this time he can hear his own roar. He is in his bedroom, and last night as always he went to bed with his wife. They made love three times, first time hurried and rough, she dragged him in the rooms by his belt, he was laughing, the second time was playful, she was flaunting her flexibility, her ankles on his shoulders, little pink toes rubbing his ears, that she claims she adores, he rose on his knees, her shoulder blades still on the sheets, she arched and he stroked the silk skin of her stomach with his palm. The difference between their flesh stood out for him, his rough, calloused, according to her scorching to touch. She is like water in a spring stream, cool, fluid, invigorating. The third time he was half asleep when her small strong hand encircled his member, she knew exactly what to do to rouse him, and he pretended to be asleep for a few more instants, letting her have her fun, and then she giggled and accused him of being old and lazy, which gained her a loud though gentle smack to her round buttocks, after which she straddled him and had her wicked ways with him. She reached climax twice, purring and clawing at his chest, after which she deftly turned, his member still firmly clenched in her muscles. She was rocking on him, the view of her pale pert buttocks in front of him, and he found himself grabbing them, lifting her, bucking his hips. His release was sudden and violent, he was overtired, he had spent the day on the pony back, returning from his trip to Mirkwood, and as little as he wanted to admit it his nerves were in frenzy.

The room is dark, and he didn't realise it but he has rolled off the bed, he is on his knees on the floor, the dagger still clenched in his hand. Terrifying images flash through his mind. Blood, so much blood, blood soaking the white sheets he lay on last night, the white sheets her small hands were fisting around while he was placing languished kisses on her thighs, and his mind jumps to the image of her body, the even milky skin, the slender wrists, miniscule waist, so frail, so weak. He hates it, hates her nature, the blood of Men in her veins. Dwarves are sturdier, their skin rougher, but even this wouldn't be enough. If Thorin Oakenshield could choose he would wish upon his wife to be an Elf. As much as he despises, almost detests the pointy eared bastards, were she an Elf she would not grow old, she would never fall sick, she would live. She would be strong, almost invincible. He does not wish eternal life on himself, but he often thinks he is old and worries what will come of her when he is gone. Thorin is madly in love with his wife. And if being of Elven blood protected her, made her safe, he would agree on it.

The dagger in his hands starts shaking. Even an Elf would not have survived having received the direct blow of this blade. It is wide and long for a Dwarven dagger, the fuller is wide, the blade is fortified, and Thorin drops on all four on the floor. The metal clanks on the stone, and then he feels something soft brush at his cheek. It is something eerie, almost otherworldly, terrifying... He cannot make himself rise, his mind is pushing away images of broken distorted body of his yasith on the bed, only to conjure a new one.

"Thorin," his wife's voice is strong and calm, and he makes a strangled half sob, half shout. "Thorin, I am unscathed. I am alright." He drops his head, and violent vomiting starts shaking his body. The content of his stomach spills on the floor, the acidic bitter taste in his mouth and throat, and he is heaving loudly. The room is too dark, he can't see anything, his eyes are tearing, but if he could speak he would beg for her to show herself. He cannot seem to remember what she looks like. All he can see in his mind is blood, and open wounds, he can even smell blood.

A cool narrow hand lies on his shoulder, he feels her gathering his hair, she is holding it, the second palm forcefully rubbing between his shoulder blades.

"It is alright, Thorin, alright. Nothing happened, I am unscathed." Several more deep heaves wreck his body, he is shaking from cold and exhaustion now, and then he feels her body press into his side, she is bare just like him, and her cheek is against his shoulder now.

He is feeling more soft brushing on his skin, somehow it makes him even more nauseated.

"Are you..? Have I…?" He cannot seem to ask, his throat hurts, his voice is sheer rasp, choked and painful, but he needs her to tell him she is unharmed.

"I am unhurt, Thorin, when you woke up I rolled away, I was not on the bed."

"What is touching me?" His body is quaking in strange disgust. These little touches, like wings of a moth, make him want to scream and run.

"The feathers from the pillow. You cut the pillow." Feathers, they are just feathers. "You need to get up, Thorin. Let us get you to the bath chambers." She moves away from him, and he is terrified.

"No!" He jerks, pulling his hair out of her hand, grabbing blindly, trying to press her body into him again. She shifts, wraps one slender arm around his middle.

"I am here. We will walk together. Thorin, it is alright," she is helping him rise, pressing her body into his, he can feel the brush of her delicate breasts to him, he is stunned by the contrast of the soft curves, her hip pressed to his, and the dry strong hands pulling him up.

He regains a miniscule part of his composure and stands up, swaying, heavily leaning onto her. He tells himself he will agonise over his weakness later. He needs to leave the room, it smells of his vomit and there are still feathers floating in the air, and he cannot bear for her to light up a candle and for them to see the destruction of the bed. His mind though is frantically recollecting his movements, there was slashing, and then he stabbed. He doesn't want to but a small part of his mind trained to study fighting techniques stubbornly comes up with images, the shape and depth of the cuts, and he takes a spasmodic breath in.

She leads him out, they enter the bath chambers, and she pulls the lever on the wall opening the chute with hot water in the ceiling. They then sit on the nearest bench, she has found it by battering her hand blindly, and he suddenly realises what is happening. He grabs her and presses her into him. Her body is warm and supple, and he is squeezing his eyes.

"Wren..."

"Stop," she speaks authoritatively and calmly. "You have nothing to apologise for. Do not even start." The narrow hands lie on his cheeks, and a painful shudder runs through his body. She presses her forehead to his, and then moves closer, and some more, and then she is on his lap, and his hands are around her, he is torn between the desire to squeeze her to make sure she is here and the fear to hurt her, her arms are now around his neck, and she isn't afraid, she is strong, and alive, and she is pulling him impossibly close. A sob tears at him, and she is pressing her temple to his. "I am here, I am untouched, you have nothing to blame yourself for. I am here."

She has a peculiar manner of speech, all words are pronounced clearly, with the intonation he is so familiar with, and right now it is helping the words to reach his understanding. She is here, she is untouched, he has nothing to blame himself for. She is here.

"Mahal help me..." He breathes out, and she starts stroking the back of his head. She shifts again, this time straddling him, crossing her legs behind him, he suddenly notices the aroma of lilacs filling his nose, and he is taking greedy inhales, more and more, to remind himself of life, and sun, and that day she was cutting down the heavy opulent branches, there are lilacs bushes by the road to Dale, and she stopped their procession, and she was putting them in her saddlebag he was holding for her. He felt as if he was forty again, young and careless, running ridiculous chores for a maiden he was enamoured with, his warriors were waiting by their ponies, smoking and chatting amicably, ignoring the fact that the King was following his wife like a pup, she was talking about the flowers, he was hardly listening, watching her rosy cheeks and red lips, and once there were just a few steps more between them and the convoy, he grabbed her, she dropped the knife and he the bag, and he dragged her into the shrubs, kissing her greedily, groping her breasts in the low cut of a small velvet doublet, his palms sliding from the white velvet to the pale skin. She was laughing but answering him, grabbing his ears and then the legs in travelling trousers went around his waist, he pressed her back into the nearest tree, and she gasped, her happy laughing eyes in front of him.

"Thorin, I need to light the lamps and the bath is ready." He cannot bring himself to let her go, their skin is touching in so many spots, and that is the only thing that brings relief. He is shaking, he realises he is feeling cold, and he lets her slide off his lap.

The lamp is turned on, and he is shocked by the view of her standing by the wall. It is as if he has never seen her before. She is indeed unscathed, his eyes quickly run over her body, he knows she could have lied to protect him. There are feathers in her mad hair, a sumptuous sea of copper curls, scattered on her shoulders and covering her back, down to her buttocks. She usually braids it before bedtime, but last night they fell asleep still entangled, his member inside her. Her skin is white and even, and he closes his eyes repeating the same thing again and again. She is unscathed, there is no blood, she is unscathed, there is no blood.

"Thorin, bath." He can hear clanking of oil bottles and soap extract jars, he opens his eyes, and obediently rising he walks to the tub and sinks into scalding water. The fragrances flood his senses.

"Wren..." He stretches the hand to her, she comes up and intertwines their fingers. He wants to feel her near him, but she quickly leans in, kisses his cheek and then steps back.

"I need to see the state the bedroom is in. I will be back." A jolt of irrational terror runs through him, he cannot let her go. "Would you like me to sit with you for a bit first?" The question is nonchalant, as if nothing had happened, and he nods.

She moves her usual small chair and sits near the tub, facing him. Their fingers are intertwined again, and then he realises they have not kissed once since the calamity started. And then he remembers he has just vomited on the floor of their bedroom. He sinks into water, still unwilling to let go of her hand, he gathers a full mouth of bathwater, it is bitter from the birch extract that she always adds into his baths, to ease the pain in the maimed joints of the right leg, and he resurfaces spitting the water out onto the floor. There is a drain in it, water is often splashed out of the tub, especially when they occupy it together. He repeats the action. She is watching him, her face is almost serene, and then he pulls her to him.

Her lips are cold, and he realises she has been sitting near him bare. She is always cold, their rooms are kept heated at all times, but she is so slender that unless she is in a bath or in their bed under many covers and furs she tends to shiver. She didn't leave to get dressed, she stayed for his sake, and he feels guilty.

And then she deepens the kiss, her tongue opens his lips, searches contact with his, and he moans into her mouth. He grabs the back of her head, then he tentatively pulls her closer, a thought flashes through his mind, he is worried he will be forceful, he is feeling the urge to grab her, to assure himself she is here, to rub his palms over every inch of her body, and when such craving comes he could be thoughtless. She never complains but with shame he sometimes notices markings on her delicate skin. Right now she is in danger of such violence from him more than ever. He has never before been that terrified of losing her.

"Wren..." He mumbles into her lips, and she starts stroking his ears.

"It is alright, it is alright." He is not sure what she is reassuring him about, of her being unharmed, or now of his desires to be welcomed. And yet she moves away and cups his face. "I need to see to the bedchambers. I will leave the door open, you will hear me. But you need to stay in the hot water, it will bring relief. I will return promptly." He hates it but he nods, and she rises and leaves.

He doesn't dare to close his eyes, he is afraid of the image of crimson sheets, he is industriously staring at the cupboard at the opposite wall, jars and bottles behind stained glass door, neat stacks of folded sheets. There is a small table near it, brushes and combs on it, several ribbons thrown carelessly, and he is taking measured breaths. He is keeping the terror at bay, but he knows his resolve is cracking.

"Is the water still warm?" She calls from the bedroom, and he clenches his jaw from intense emotions. The water is of course still warm, it hasn't been that long. She is just letting him hear her even calm voice, she is assuring him all is well, and he closes the eyes, stinging with tears.

"It is..." His voice is choked. He should have told her to come and check herself. He needs her near. There is some rustling and banging in the bedchambers, sound of water splashing on the floor, and then he can hear a window opening. "Wren..." He is almost at the end of his rope.

"I am almost done, just a few... more… minutes..." She is moving something there, more banging and rusling ensues, then she seems to be washing her hands in the basin by the bed, and then she comes back into the bath chambers. He turns his head, he is surprised she is still bare, he expected a robe, but she quickly crosses the room, almost mincing, on her tip toes and deftly climbs into the tub. "Maiar help me, I am freezing..." He is so shocked that he doesn't move, but she lunges ahead and lies on top of him, stretching her body on his. He is half seated, her arms go around his ribs, she pressed her cheek to his chest above the water, and he can see the soles of the small pink feet . She is rubbing one to another in the water. "Maiar, so cold out there..." She sounds almost pleased, he could feel her small hands rubbing his lower back under water. "The water is indeed still warm..." He does not know what to say.

"Where are we to sleep tonight?" His voice sounds peeved, although all he feels is relief from her proximity. He is also quickly warming up and tension is leaving his body. He knows his agitated state will not last, soon he will become sleepy and sluggish. He has seen too many battles to not know how it proceeds.

"We will go to my parlour, there is a big divan there. I have taken some sheets out of the cupboard, and the covers from the bed. We can take them there. We can build a nest, something new is always good for a marriage." She is jesting lightly, but he isn't feeling better enough to pick up her tone. He remains silent.

She tends to come up with all sorts of playful ideas for them, sometimes they have dinner on the floor, on furs and covers, she calls it 'inappropriate picnics,' they do indeed mostly end in lecherous activities, sometimes she suggests a night on a balcony, when it is summer, the air is warm and they lie intertwined watching fireflies dancing in the air. She is seemingly never out of new games, he often wonders where she finds time and imagination, she is always busy, juggling her duties in the infirmary, in the library, the correspondence with Bard and the Elvenking, the renovations she oversees, the household she rules, the books she reads.

Bringing covers and furs to a balcony, or arranging them on the floor, she settles in them with a merry proud smile on her face, and always proclaims happily, 'I have build a nest for us, my lord...'

Something painfully clenches in his chest, he grabs her under her arms, pulls her to his lips, he is greedy and far from gentle, he is growling, and she is soft and pliant in his arms, and he just needs to feel in control of his body, of his mind, he is grappling to something he knows, he knows her, she is familiar, kindred, all his, his life, his world. He is almost sobbing, some unintelligent sounds fall from his lips, and she understands, and accepts, he is almost crying from relief, and gratitude, and love, and she lets him drag her out of the tub. He jumped out of it, water is pouring off them, he pulls her up, her legs go around his waist, and he thrusts into her standing up. The first plunge is met with friction, she was not ready for him, and terrifying shame spills on his insides like black poison, but he has no time to collect his thoughts, he wants to move away, put her down, fall on his knees, start apologising, but she grabs his ears and jerks them painfully.

"Stop. Don't move." Her tone is authoritative, he reacts to the irrefragable command, she pressed her palms into his shoulders, and starts rocking her hips. She is rubbing her center to him, her lips find his, he is frozen, but her mouth moves the way she knows arouses him, and she is tender and playful, and he exhales and starts answering. Moisture is quickly coating his member, her hands are roaming his shoulders, and soon without noticing how he joins her rhythm. Her fingers are curled into his shoulders, every time he speeds up, her nails dig into his skin, and he again and again takes his thrusts under control. They continue for a while, and he releases, not fully satisfied.

They move onto the divan, they walked through the other door in the bath chambers, through her wardrobe, and into the parlour. They couple again and again, he has to constantly restrain himself, he is hoping the number of acts will exhaust him, even without releasing the aggressive lust he is keeping in check. It is already dawn, when he once again falls on her body after spilling his seed. After first several times he took her, he finally became mindful of her pleasure, his lips and hands and his member bringing her over the edge again and again, as if apologising for the first few times he ravished her body almost mindlessly, just a thin slice of control keeping him from brutalising her. The tone of their loving changed, it became about being together, an almost conversation, instead of him grabbing her slender body, tasting replaced biting, kisses and moans replaced growls, and he finally feels sated and drowsy. He bedded her in all possible ways this night, moving her and arranging her the way he wanted, she is so attuned to him that she was playful, aggressive or plain depending on what he needed from her at every minute, and now his body is almost numb of repeated climaxes, his shoulders and back are covered in scratches from her nails, and he is softly kissing her shoulder.

"Akhminruki astû..." The most reverent words of gratitude slip from his lips, and she hums sleepily, her gentle hand at the back of his head. He rolls on his back, pulling her after him, she climbs on him, her cheek on his sternum, her hips between his knees, they are of the same height, and she is drawing some patterns on his forearm with the tips of her fingers tenderly.

"We will need to talk about it, Thorin..." He is too spent to object or even discuss it. "If not now, then some other day, but we will have to..." He will try to avoid this discussion, he sees no point. The past is past, it cannot be changed, he just needs to make sure tonight's events do not come to be repeated. He even wonders if he should sometimes sleep away from her, but then throws the thought aside as preposterous. Without her he wouldn't sleep at all.

And then she pushes her hand into his, he can see her delicate fingers, intertwined with his, all her rings gone, he suddenly realises she took them off while cleaning their bedchambers. She is his wife, she is his partner in everything, she is the Queen, his Queen, a few hours ago he could have killed her, and she took off her opulent rings and pinned up the hair she grew out for him, and then she was cleaning the floor of their bedchambers, probably on her knees, of the content of his stomach. He has no right to lock himself from her. And perhaps he doesn't want to.

"It was the Pale Orc again… The fight on the Ravenhill… When I was certain Kili and Fili were to die, and that red haired Elf died for Kili… And then..." He cannot go on, he closes his eyes, pain slashed through the right knee. They spent the day on the pony back yesterday, he was overtired, nightmares come when he is agitated or enraged, and yesterday he was both.

She is silent, he knows she pushed both her fists under her chin, and her eyes are on his face. He cannot see, but he knows the soft expression. She is the first person whose sympathy he accepts, and even welcomes. He opens his eyes, and she is giving him a warm sad half smile.

There is a ragged scar below his ribs, even uglier white marks covering the right leg, the limp is gone, but joints ache, unless he is just out a hot bath, with the birch extract in the scorching water, and oils and balms are rubbed into it by her strong trained hands.

"How do the dreams end, Thorin?" She speaks in a level voice, and he meets her astute eyes. "When you wake up screaming, what do you see?"

"They are both dead, Fili and Kili… He breaks my leg like he did, and then his blade… It enters several inches more to the right… And I lunge ahead..." He cannot say it, but sometimes she is in his dreams as well. It is her he is protecting in that last desperate attempt, he knows he is dying, the Orc's blade has already pierced his body, and he jumps ahead, clenching a dagger, or a sword, or sometimes with his bare hands, sometimes remembering that there is a blade under his pillow, and he knows it is his last gulp of air, he know the end is near, and Fili and Kili are bloodied and broken, and she is next…

In the cozy silence of her parlour, his wife shifts, crawls up and straddles him. She pushes the covers from both of them, pale light of dawn is streaming through the window, lightening up her smooth radiant skin, lines fluid and delicate, and then he is watching her angular face. She is studying the scar on his left side, then the tips of cool long fingers run on it. Her lips are moving, and he hears her mumbling.

"Radial velocity... mass of the blade... the size of the initial impact… Intact lung... the grain of musculature…" He realises she is replaying his wound in her head, and he wants to pull her back from these images, and then she stretches her hand, fingers straight, mimicking a blade, and she presses the tips of her fingers to the scar. "It was a jagged blade, it entered under this angle… Have you pushed him off yourself?" Her voice is emotionless, and he is watching her amber coloured eyes mesmerized.

"He was on top of me, I pushed him off..."

"Was your leg broken by then?" They have never before spoken of that fight.

"Aye..." She nods, confirming some unknown thoughts of hers.

"Did the Skinchanger find you? They say he carried you out of the battle." Thorin remembers little after his blade entered the heart of the Pale Orc, but he nods. "You had many hours after this wound. Even if they left you on the battlefield for twice as long, you wouldn't have bled to death. Exsanguination… The blood loss was extensive, you were incapacitated, but you would have lived even if Beorn hadn't come." She lifts her eyes, her hand is now splayed on the scar, and she suddenly smiles to him. "You need to tell me what happened. How he found you. How they carried you back. Where Fili was, where Kili was..." In a strange flash Thorin suddenly remembers Fili screaming and running to him through the snow covered rocks of the Ravenhill.

"Why?" He rasps out unable to shift his eyes locked with hers.

"Then you will remember what happened. If you talk of it again and again… Your mind will be under your control, when your dreams come, you will remember what happened." He doubts, but then he hopes, what if he indeed remembers that Kili lived, that Fili lived, that… she was not there? "Do you feel in those dreams that you have let your kin down?" Her voice is soft, and he jolts underneath her. Guilt, that is indeed what he feels in them, he now realises. Guilt and shame, and regret, sometimes in those dreams Dis is there too, and he will not protect her either.

His wife stretches on his body, the ever changing eyes are very close, and he sees the conviction in them. "Because you have not. You led them to victory, they lived, and now they prosper. Kili sleeps with his wife a few passages away from us, this morning Fili was telling another improper anecdote at breakfast, and your sister shushed him. When the dreams come, remember what actually happened, remember the sound your blade made entering his heart, remember the first sounds you heard in the healer's tent, remember that everybody lived, and remember where you sleep now."

Thorin wraps his arms around her and presses his face into the soft fragrant curls. This is the first night he talks about that fight, but it is of course the first of many. Nightmares never leave completely, but he talks, and he remembers, that Kili was crying over the broken body of the Elven captain of the guard, that Fili was cradling his broken arm, kneeling near his brother, that there was a shard of the Orc's blade stuck in Thorin's side, that he screamed where they removed it, that Kili was grinning sunnily at his wedding, that Fili is teaching the Queen to throw knives with both hands, that it seems there is something going on between Dis and one of the compatriots of Kili's wife. And most of all, that Wren of Enedwaith wasn't there, on the Ravenhill, while the Battle of the Five Armies was raging underneath. She wasn't there.


	18. Heal and Grow

**A/N: Just little something I found in my folders. For the ****Guest**** who asked about Wren's past in a review to **_**Me Without You**_**.**

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Thorin's fingertips gently slide along the curve of his wife's left buttock, down to the back of her thigh, and she peeks at him, her head resting on her folded arms. She is stretched on their bed, on her stomach, in all her glowing delicate bareness, and he is following the movement of his hand with his eyes. There is a scar on the left side under her ribcage on her back. He strokes it with his thumb.

"Where is this one from?" He does not know why he is whispering, perhaps because it is the middle of the night, and there is only one candle burning in their bedchambers, or perhaps there is something so strange and piercing in what he feels at the moment that he is afraid to scare it off.

Her eyes are closed again, and she murmurs, "I do not know. Is there something there?" He suddenly clearly sees she is lying, and he strokes the white jagged mark again.

"There is a scar… From a blow of sorts, it is not a cut..." Her body tenses under his hand.

"Thorin..." Her tone is cautioning and dark. He sees she is looking at him again, her face unreadable.

"Perhaps from a fall, or a hit..."

"It is from a whip." Her answer is sharp and clear. His fingers halt on her skin, and he looks into her eyes. She is frowning, the line of lips set stern, and he can see one of her small hands is now clenched in a fist. For an instant they are looking at each, and her eyes soften, and she exhales. "It has healed long time ago, I have all but forgotten about it." There are a few other scars on her body, he has studied every inch of her, his lips and fingers travelled and learnt, but the rest could be explained by some other happenstances but violence. This one cannot. And he starts to think he might have been accepting her nonchalant explanations for other marks too easily previously.

"Are there others? From whip or any other… cruelty?" She is studying him. She has this habit, of suddenly stopping in her tracks, halting any activity, as if giving herself a moment to consider what is happening. her mind is sharp and calculative. He values it in her, his own short temper has brought a lot of grief to him in the past. But sometimes, and today is one of those days, he just wants to know what is going on in her mind. What are the thoughts she is carefully hiding at the back of her mind, to ponder later, in the solitude of her study, or sitting on the window sill twirling a comb or a brush in her hands? Her mind is a maze, it is her own palace, unreachable, walls impenetrable, and he is feeling a greedy desire to peek in.

"Only the one on the left ankle. It is from a fall down the stairs in the infirmary I served in. So it is not from any violence directly, but it was a consequence." Her voice is emotionless, she is simply stating facts, she is looking at him as if asking why he would inquire of such things. He pushes his fingers into the thick hair at the back of her head, it is pushed on the side, so he has access to her shoulder blades that he is so fond of. She shifts closer to him, and he pulls her on him, rolling on his back. Her cool slender body stretches on him, and he envelops her in his arms. Her cheek is pressed to his chest, and she sighs. He starts lightly stroking her back, his fingertips running down her spine, idle twirls drawn on her smooth skin. Just the way he knows she enjoys the most.

"I wish I could have erased them..." His voice is quiet, something clenches in his chest.

"No, Thorin, you wish you could have exercised your revenge on him. You wish you could find him and wrench the same amount of pain out of his body, and watch him wriggle in agony on the floor," her tone is even, and he looks at her in astoundment. She chuckles joylessly. "Do you think cruel and violent thoughts have not come to my mind?" She is not looking at him, her cheek pressed to his chest. "But none of it would have helped. It would only have made the same monster out of you and me. Revenge has never healed anyone. Time does." He is thoughtful, by now he has learnt to listen to her words. There are rarely wrong. "And again, remember what has really transpired. He was not torturing your wife, he was cruel to a fifteen years old girl. While you and I know such situation is impossible among the Khazad, among Men it is more than common. I served under him and was as much as his property. Some girls even envied me." He is taking slow breaths in now, and then she chuckles again, but this time it is a merrier sound. "I could not understand then why it was I whom he chose for his mistress, not one of the more alluring healers. He was after all attractive and in that infirmary all the power belonged to him, and yet he chose me, a plain, unassuming Wren from Enedwaith. And only a few years ago, already married to you, I finally understood." She lifts her face and looks at him. He is frowning, rage boiling in him, disgust towards the man he had never seen hardly controlled, for her sake. His massive fists are clenched on the sheets, but he relaxes his fingers and gently strokes her curls.

"And what was it you understood, my Queen?" His voice is gruff, and she smiles blissfully to him. She is completely relaxed, her eyes are distant. Sometimes he doesn't understand her at all. He insisted on this conversation himself, and he regrets it, he regrets the helpless rage he is feeling right now, and he is almost irritated that she is so calm. And yet he makes himself tenderly cup her face and look into her eyes, they have finally met his, and they are artless and sincere.

"I was fighting him. I was weak, young, terrified, but I still fought him. He could not break me, and it thrilled him. The challenge, the chase, the hunt… You once said that if the spirit determined the size, I would have been bigger than a dragon." She smiles, and he smiles back.

"It sounds very poetic, my heart. Are you certain these are my words?" He remembers saying this, but he likes teasing her. The ambience in the room grows lighter, and he takes a freer breath in. She giggles.

"You might have been still under the influence of what had transpired minutes before that." He cocks a brow.

"Which was…? I am afraid my memory has started giving in these last few years, I might need reminding." She laughs and sits up on him. She tilts her head and licks her lips.

"If the memory serves me right, I was in exactly this position, we have just returned from that unfortunate trip to the Anduin Valleys," his hands tense on her hips, he almost lost her then, "And I was moving," she grinds her pelvis to his, and he starts swelling under her center pressed to him, "And you were praising my battle spirit, and my skill with throwing knives, and my courage, and my recklessness," she moves on him with each phrase, and he closes his eyes in pleasure.

"I would have never praised you for recklessness, kurdu," he murmurs, "You are endlessly careless. I would have locked you in Erebor, had I thought the walls could have detained you." She laughs carefree now and presses her palms to his chest. She slightly shifts, and his member slides into her.

"You were rather affected then, my lord, you would have pronounced all possible compliments then, to convince me to continue my movements."

"I can see how that is very much a possible explanation," he rasps, her hips moving in a mesmerizing rhythm, a purposeful twist added to it, her inner walls clenching and caressing him just the way he likes it.

She drops her head, the copper waves cascade on his chest, she is making her customary soft sounds, half moans, half gasps, and except these for a while they are silent. He has closed his eyes, and his world shrinks to the sensations she is gifting him with, to her love and her caresses. She brings them both over the edge, simultaneously, years of intimacy have attuned their bodies. She stills, her back strained, her inner muscles convulsing, tight and pulsating around him, and then she softly lies on him, and he wraps his arms around her.

"They are healed now, Thorin," she speaks quietly, he is breathing deeply and hums asking for clarification. "My scars… They have healed. I am not that little girl anymore..." Her voice is sleepy now, she always is immediately drowsy after their love.

"You are bigger than a dragon now..." He softly adds, stroking the back of her head.

"I am bigger than a dragon..." She agrees, and he can hear her breathing even out. He is lying, awake, holding his little Queen in his arms. She is bigger than a dragon, she is his whole world.


	19. Date Night, Part 1

**A/N: I have no idea where this came from. I was baking muffins today (not for work, just home :D) and as always got inspired while cooking. So I had two ideas today, a smutty fun one and a slightly more adventure filled one, also nothing dark, and then they merged into this. How many parts it'll have… not the foggiest :D It might become a separate story, then I'll take it out of here. We'll see :)**

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They are sitting in front of each on the bed, he spread his legs wide, she is kneeling in front of him, and he is laughing at what she just purred, a goblet of wine in his hand. A scarlet splash flies on the white sheets, and she tut-tuts.

"You are wasting our wine, my King." Her eyes are burning feverishly, although she had none. He topples the rest in his throat and throws the glass carelessly aside.

"I'd rather swap my intoxicant." He picks her up under her arms and pulls her closer. Her narrow cool palms lay on his bare shoulders, by then he is only faring his breeches, and she smiles to him, slanted eyes half lidded, and she runs her curled fingers down his chest, following their movement through the thick chest hair with her eyes.

"Oh, my King is quite a flatterer today." She tickles his middle, and he chuckles low in his chest.

"And my Queen is positively ravishing." He returns her gesture. His fingers brush at her skin through the gauzy fabric of the chemise, the only other clothing on her are thin, obscenely short bloomers, and she licks her lips.

She settles on her heels more comfortably and gives him an anticipative look over. They are taking their time today, stretching the pleasure, savouring the alone time.

He gently brushes the tips of his fingers along the low cut of the lace chemise, on her pale radiant skin, teasing but not intruding, and then he hooks up his finger under a narrow strap on her shoulder. He cocks one brow up, and she giggles.

He shifts his finger, dragging its back on her smooth shoulder, enjoying the skin, and then he quickly jerks his hand back allowing the strap to slide down. It opens the hollow underneath her clavicle to his eyes, and he leans in, placing one feather like kiss, just for the taste, just to catch the habitual fragrance of lilacs from her skin.

She leans in as well, and he feels her soft lips on his shoulder, and then on the muscle between the neck and the shoulder. He straightens up, dropping his head back, her fingers run his neck and shoulder, as if exploring or perhaps tracing the familiar lines, and he hears her usual soft purring sound. He smiles a small smile, his eyes closed, and then her mouth is pressed to his throat, underneath the beard. One small hand lies over his heart, another one on his thigh, sliding up, not yet demanding, but already slightly impatient.

He softly twists from under her caresses, returning to his previous position, and with pleasure he gives her a look. There are fevered spots burning on the cheekbones, the pupils are large and black, lips wet and slightly parted.

"I can't complain about your libidinousness on everyday basis, my Queen, but I have to say today you are especially rampant." He is laughing, and she lifts one brow. They have been wed for several years, the gestures are already mimicked and exchanged.

"I am perhaps titillated by the circumstances of our little adventure." There is a slight rasp to her voice, and his passion flares. He cups her face, she immediately leans into his palm, and he pulls her to his lips, in a deep unrestrained kiss.

He is savouring the soft lips, just the perfect mixture of commanding and yielding, and then her tongue darts to his mouth, demanding entrance, and he tears his mouth from hers. She always makes him lose control too fast. They have escaped their halls, there will not have such chance soon again, he is planning to make the best of it. To do so, he needs to shake her hand off the strings on his breeches. A guffaw bursts out of him from the clear disappointment written on her face. He quickly kisses the pouted red lips.

"Could I have some more wine, my Queen?" That gets him a slightly haughty look.

"Am I to wait on you, my King? The wine is just there on the table." She is feigning grumpiness, but then she slides off the bed and walks slowly to the table by the window. Judging by the swaying hips she knows exactly why he asked her to fetch him wine. He rolls on his side, his eyes greedily roaming the buttocks and the curve of waste, then sliding lower, on the shapely calves, and then on the small pink feet. She is pouring wine into a goblet unnecessarily bending and sticking out her perky backside. The edge of the bloomers hikes up, he can see more of the milky skin, and he has to fist his hands to stop himself from rushing ahead and jerking those very bloomers down. He can almost imagine the rapture of thrusting into her, he can almost see her spread on the table on her stomach, and the height seems appropriate, and he shakes his head to hinder his fervour. They have all night, the room is paid for, and no one knows they are here.

And then he catches her slanted amber coloured eyes, she is watching him over her shoulder, and to add to his excruciatingly pleasurable suffering she wiggles her bum. He barks a short laughter, and she turns around. She is leaning onto the table and slowly lifts the goblet to her lips. She abstains from brews, her mind meddles from the smallest amount and the next day she is ill, but he knows she can afford one sip.

She probably is not drinking in actuality, just wets her lips, allowing the wine to colour her already bright red lips, and he stretches his hand to her.

"Come, my heart." She walks back, carrying a glass, and then she bends down, her lips are an inch away from his, he catches the smell of wine, and he slowly leans in, closes his eyes and sample the red off her lips. It is the best of tastes. Her lips softly open under his, he licks the inner side, encircles the mouth, as if for the first time, the tip of his tongue diving in the corners, and she moves back giving him a look down her nose.

"How is your wine, my King?"

"I have never had better." To speak he has to clear his throat, and she hands him the goblet.

He pats his lap, and she slides on it, tucking her feet under his thigh. They are always cold. He is drinking his wine, one arm wrapped around her. She is tracing his helix with her delicate fingers. Small kisses follow, it tickles and somehow makes him even more aroused, and then he hears her teeth softly clank on the earcuff. She pushed her nose in the hair behind his ear, nuzzling him, and her small strong hand follows. She is playing with a braid, its twin in her own copper waves, and she suddenly whispers in his ear.

"I am glad you came for me after all those years." He looks at her askew, momentarily surprised by her words, and to be honest slightly worried that she switched from lecherous mood to mawkish. He always makes the best of efforts to meet her sentimental needs, sometimes maudlin amorous talk comes surprisingly easily to him, but he still feels rather relieved to notice that her eyes are still dark. He knows her face well, that is not the expression of bathos. She nips his ear confirming his assumption. "You turned out so much better in the sack than all those fantasies of you I had had."

He pushes the glass on the sill of the window above the bed and topples her into the sheets.

"That is interesting, tell me more." His tone is demanding, and she laughs throatily. "Wren..." His eyes are searching her face, and for good measure he grabs her wrists and pins them to the bed. "Tell me more..."

Slender strong legs go around his waist and she pushed her pelvis into his.

"Tell you what?" She is teasing him, the corners of her lips are curved up, and he growls.

"The fantasies. In those seven years… What did you imagine? What did you do when you had these thoughts?" This new game is thrilling him, he is sensing the richness of pleasures from it, but he halts himself. She is his wife, and the years together have only taught him more respect towards her. He knows he needs to ask for consent. "If of course you want..." The question comes out jumbled, he is in a rush, but on the other hand he is forcing it out of himself, and she smiles to him widely, showing him she understands and accepts, and he breathes out in relief. He is not even trying to be discreet anymore, she knows him well. She quickly lifts her head, pecks his lips, closing this discussion, and they are back to the lecherous part, which suits him just perfect.

"I have dreamed of many things… Which ones do you want to hear first, my lustful King?" She relaxes into the sheets. His hands are still locked around her wrists, and he lowers his face and places several open-mouthed kisses in the cut of the chemise.

"Tell me something we haven't tried yet. Something you wanted... " She emits a pensive hum, but he is already distracted, his lips found her breast through the fabric of the slip, and he catches a pebbled peak between his lips.

"I can hardly think like this, my lord..." He lifts his face and blows on the wet spot left after his sucking. She gasps and wiggles under him. For an instant he think she is trying to break free and he wonders if he should release her, but then he realises she is rubbing her center to his erection.

"You are not talking, my Queen. If you do not entertain me, I will find some toys for myself." He bumps his nose into another breast, and she exhales loudly.

"I wanted you to take me in the stables." He freezes and then looks at her sideways. She giggles and then sticks her tongue at him. "It is such a common anecdote, the hay, the disarrayed clothes, and the chance of being caught, I often imagined you with your trousers around your ankles, my skirts bunched up in a haste, and your buttocks cooling in the air." She is making big eyes at him, speaking in a funny voice, and he releases her wrists and falls on her laughing loudly. She is laughing as well, her eyes are squinted, and he is madly in love with her. He catches her mouth in a merry affectionate kiss.

They are rolling on the bed, hands wandering, limbs intertwined, and then he is on his back, she is stretched on him. He cups her narrow face, his thumb under her chin, and he lifts her face to meet her eyes.

"We are in an inn, my heart, they do have stables here." She snorts.

"It is just a fantasy. And you know my annoying cleanliness, my lord, I would not enjoy loving in stables, when there are clean sheets available. Perhaps we could fulfill some other of my fantasies..."

"Oh?" He cocks a brow. "Do tell."

"Well, I did have seven years, and all my lonely nights for it, I do have a list..." She doesn't get a chance to continue, when the door in their room squeaks, although Thorin decisively remembers locking it behind him when they entered, and suddenly six men are crowding around the bed. One of them has a crossbow, and it is aimed at the throat of the King Under the Mountain.

"Good evening, Master Dwarf, I suggest you keep quiet and listen."

_To be continued..._


	20. Date Night, Part 2

**A/N: And Part 2 to the previous chapter. Like I said, it's light and silly. I am just in that sort of mood :)**

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"Good evening, Master Dwarf, I suggest you keep quiet and listen attentively." The man speaking is tall, a Gondorian judging by the profile and the dark hair, and suddenly Thorin pushes Wren off him, and she lands on the floor in the ungraceful pile of limbs. She also has hit her knees and an elbow on the wooden boards, and she hisses.

She throws a quick look at the King. His eyes are locked with the cold grey eyes of the Gondorian, who is quite obviously the leader of the gang. The other five men quickly scamper around the room, one of them has already picked up the Orcrist and is stretching his hands with it to the Gondorian. They are all clean, their clothes are not ostentatious but well tailored, weapons in order. One is looking out of the window, two more are controlling the door.

"I am listening," the King's voice is deep and calm, and he sits up on the bed. "Whatever you have to say, get the whore out of the room first. I do not discuss my matters in the presence of the likes of her."

That explains the treatment she has received. He is playing the 'she is nothing to me' card. She looks at the Gondorian and meets his studying eyes. Everything is shaking inside her, and she lets it show. The tears roll onto the eyes, and she knows the lips are trembling.

"You see, my lord, the matter is that we have heard a Dwarf and a woman, hiding their faces under cloaks, have rented a room in this inn for their dalliances. And it is our common business. Star crossed lovers, in their own little love bubble..." The Gondorian is still looking her over, his eyes are astute, and she does not feel much violence in him. Cold mind of a killer perhaps, but no blood thirst. "Usually they are young, their families do not approve, but eventually pay very good price once the younglings are kidnapped and a generous ransom is asked for them." The Gondorian looks at the King, and Wren sees approval in his eyes. "I did not expect a war hardened, mature warrior with silver in his hair..."

The King narrows his eyes. He does not enjoy being appraised like a stock. The Gondorian smirks and gracefully sits in the nearest chair. In other circumstances Wren would be almost affected by how very attractive he is. Long legs, wide shoulders, lithe strong body, he gestures elegantly in the air with a long fingered hand.

"So you see, how surprised I am to find you here, and in the company of a small red haired woman of Men..."

"She is just a whore. My mistress is coming later." Wren knows the King has already evaluated the balance of the power in the room, and apparently they are losing. He is trying to remove her from the room. She agrees with him. She will be of more use outside this chamber. They are in Bree, she has not been in the city for several years, but she still has plenty of old acquaintances here.

"Hm, if I did not know of the libidinousness of Dwarves, I would doubt your words," the Gondorian licks his lips and throws a predatorial look over Thorin's bare chest. Wren is starting to dislike the Man. "But I can see how it is possible."

"Can I please go, my lord?" Wren whines. She is very pleased with her acting, and the Gondorian throws her a look. "My pander is waiting for me in the common room..." She lets the tears spill on her cheeks. "I will not say a word. I know the code." She does. She is friends with the Mistress of all brothels in Dale. A whore would keep her mouth shut.

The Gondorian moves with an astonishing speed, picks her under her arm, his fingers sinking into her skin painfully, and jerks her towards him. She whimpers, dangling in his strong hand like a ragdoll. For the last few years she has been training with the King's oldest nephew, she could probably kill the Gondorian with his own dagger right now. It is clasped to his belt, she knows just the perfect move. Fili has been very thorough in her training. Under his demanding orders she has mastered a few very cunning maneuvers to compensate for her lack of physical strength and reach. They have trained on Dwarf sized dummies and much taller ones, just for a situation like this one. Wren is sobbing and is limp. There are five more men in the room, and the King is unarmed.

The Gondorian suddenly pulls her to his lips, his are rough and clearly disinterested. It is quite obvious at this stage that the King's curved ones would be much more pleasing for him than Wren's wide unappealing mouth. She is not fighting, staring at him as if in terror, but he is not watching her. He is clever enough to catch the King's reaction.

Apparently, Thorin II Oakenshield is a lousy actor. There is a low growl, the muscles are dancing on his jaw, all of his massive body shudders, and the hands are fisted. He is quite clearly snapping the Gondorian's neck in his mind, and Wren is once again thrown across the room. This time she lands on the bed near her husband.

"Just a whore, Master Dwarf? What a dishonest deceit!" Thorin, now understanding that the time of pretense is over, picks Wren up and pulls her closer. She throws him a glare, and he deftly ignores it.

"So..?" The Godnorain is back in his chair. "What do we have here?"

Wren decides that in a couple at least one should be smart. She loudly wails and hides her face behind her hands.

"Please, let me go… My betrothed will kill me… I just wanted to know what it is like with a Dwarf..." She is sobbing loudly. "They say they are so much bigger!.."

"And are they?" The Gondorian asks, and Wren peeks between her fingers.

"I did not find out… We did not get there yet..." Their eyes meet, and she sees he is thoroughly pondering her. She quickly chooses between a 'featherbrained wife of a baker' and a 'promiscuous barmaid.' She lowers her hands and sniffles loudly. "Please, let me go."

"I find it hard to believe, my lady, that you have not yet sampled all this opulence," the Gondorian's hand waves around the lower half of the King's body. "Our Stumped friend here seems to be rather possessive of you."

"He has been after me for moons now," Wren throws her husband a feigned disdainful look. "I am well known among the wine girls for my talents. Him and his kin come from Ered Luin often, he has been propositioning me for ages." She jerks her arm out of the King's hand that he was clasping tightly. "Please, I just want to go home."

"What is your name, my lady?" The Gondorian looks her over again. The chemise and the bottoms are flirty, lace, and there are alluring bows between her breasts and at the top of her buttocks. She is praying to Maiar, this is her best chance.

"Thea, daughter of Todric."

One of the men behind her hums, and the Gondorian looks at him.

"I have heard of her. Best head in Bree. Cannot be bought, but if convinced, knows what she is doing." Wren sniffles and turns to the man speaking. He is also tall, wider than his leader, and she throws as if an appraising look over him. She just needs to leave the room.

"I can be convinced," she smiles to him, "But I do not like to be forced. I am also cold. Can I have my dress?" It is a heavy velvet dress, crumpled on the floor, and one of the men twitches as if inclined to pick it up and hand it to her. She is clearly winning her audience.

"Give her the dress," the Gondorian allows, and Wren climbs off the bed. "But we are not letting you go yet, Lady Thea. Not until we decide what we are doing to our Dwarven friend here." Wren starts getting dressed, feeling the eyes of other five men on her. She is wiggling her bum industriously, it is her only attractive feature, and she is making good use of it. Judging by the sound suspiciously reminiscent of teeth gritted, the King has noticed her efforts.

She is mentally giving her husband an eyeroll. He could do the same and wiggle something as well. Clearly for the Gondorian it would be a wonderful distraction. Suddenly one of the men makes a big step to her and gropes her buttock, her dress still in her hands. Her first reaction is to knee him, but she remembers to play her role. She swats his hand and gives him an exasperated glare.

"That is not how you win a girl, honourable sir. I am not a loaf of bead, to be checked for softness this way." It is a phrase Wren has heard from Thea more than once, she is mimicking the intonation.

"I cannot say the buns are disappointing," the man laughs, and the other four join him. The Gondorian is watching the King, who is suddenly calm.

Wren feels her heart fall. She has just realised that the man groping her is the man with the crossbow. That is now pointing to the floor. As opposed to the King's throat. That is why the King is calm.

"Dunudul!" The King barks in Khuzdul. _Down! _

Wren dashes down and towards the door, sliding on the floor between the legs of the man guarding it, and from the corner of her eye, she can see the King's massive body lunge across the room. In any other circumstances Wren would swoon. And perhaps giggle at the King's uncanny semblance to a battering ram. His giant fist first meets the jaw of the man standing between the bed and the door, the King has sprung off the bed which gained him additional height of the flight, and then he topples the two men by the door.

The Gondorian has not locked it behind him, and Wren is rolling down the stairs, with a loud banging of her bony elbows and knees to the steps, in her undergarments, her hair flashing like an orange mop. That is how the arrival of the Queen of Erebor to the Bree's best inn will be remembered for years to come.

She lands at the bottom of the stair, spayed on the floor, and then she jumps on her feet yelling, "Three pouches of silver to anyone with a sword!"

There are plenty of those suddenly filled with desire to help, and in a matter of an instant a crowd of armed men are stomping up the stairs.

The room is predictably almost empty, the Gondorian and his crew are long gone, having jumped through the window, and the King is standing in the middle of the room, already in his trousers, with a grumpy expression on his face, three men he has incapacitated are piled in a corner, and he is pulling on his tunic.

Wren comes after the men from the common room, and the King rushes to her. She considers to reassure him she is unscathed but sees a blanket in his hands. He is hastily wrapping it around her shoulders, hiding her undressed body from everyone's eyes.

"Seriously? That is what worries you most?!" The King swaddles her tightly, while she is glaring at him, and then he picks her up.

The inn keeper is in the room by then, and the King throws him a large silver pouch.

"Pay all the men who showed up, and show me to the best of your rooms." Wren is cozily ensconced in his arms, but though she is overwhelmed with the desire to nibble on the ear she has in front of her nose, she keeps her face haughty and offended. She like her King groveling.

"It is this one," the inn keeper mumbles still eyeing the pile of crooks in the corner in shock.

"Then the second best," the King's voice is impatient. "And we are renting your stables for the night. Price does not matter. I do not want a single person in them until the dawn."

"Thorin!" Wren squeaks and blushes furiously.

The innkeeper minces away, rubbing his hands in anticipation of a large remuneration, and the King quickly pecks his wife's lips.

"What was it? Bunched up skirts and trousers around ankles?" His eyes are twinkling mischievously.

"Thorin..." She tried to sound disapproving, she honestly did.

The King guffaws and marches after the innkeeper.

The End

* * *

My writing blog:** kolmakov dot ca**.

I will be describing my writing process, Me Without You will soon be turned into an independent novel, and it will be fun creating my own fantasy world. Come on this journey with me!

I will show my oak and wren tattoos, will gladly take prompts and will just be happy to meet you, my darlings!

* * *

Find and follow me on Twitter: **katyakolmakov**

Hashtag for "convince me the winter is over" is #convincemewinter

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* * *

**CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

**(a novel inspired by my story on fanfiction dot net,**

**summary in my profile)**

Release date on Amazon:

July 15, 2015

Available for pre-order!

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	21. A Song and A Lesson

**For my darling reader J. as a thank-you piece for pre-ordering my novel **_**Convince Me the Winter Is Over.**_

**The promt: Thorin serenading Wren**

* * *

It was day seven of Wren's marriage to Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and it was the night that, as Wren later felt, had shaped their future carnal relationship. It had been three days since her coronation, and seven nights had passed since she bedded her husband for the first time. Perhaps, Wren should not have considered the physical side of their union in terms of nights, since their days were no less full of lecherous deeds. To look at it honestly, it seemed that almost every minute they were alone was spent in each other arms. And sometimes, not only when they were alone. They had been walked onto several times, to Wren's endless embarrassment. The King seemed unruffled by those experiences, seemingly only concerned with the third person to not see any of Wren's bareness. The fact that his naked backside had been observed seemed to concern his little.

And yet there was one element missing in their physical love: none of the multiple acts they had partaken was initiated by Wren. She enjoyed the intimacy with the King immensely. She'd known of the libidinousness of the Khazad before, and she had been somewhat worried that she wouldn't be able to keep up with the King's appetites, or would feel taxed or pained, but to her surprise they seem to match quite well. One brush of his hand or even just one look would be enough to light up the fire in her, and she would readily answer to his call.

The day before, they were walking from the armoury that she was visiting for fitting of her new royal armour, and the King brushed his fingers to hers. Dwalin who was walking near her was discussing the breastplate, and he didn't notice the shiver than ran through her. She threw a quick side glance at the King, and then one of the black brows twitched. Wren gulped, and then nodded, almost unnoticeably.

"Dwalin, we will catch up with you in a moment." The King's voice was even, but Wren had already learnt to catch the underlying rasp in it. She shuddered again, and Dwalin froze, looking between them.

"Let's go, brother." Balin who was walking behind them sped up, as much as dragging his brother behind him.

The King jerked the door nearest to them, and a few instants later he was thrusting his hips into her, her arms wrapped around his neck, legs around his waist. He had once again torn her bloomers, shreds were hanging around her thighs, and she dug her nails into his nape, spurring him.

The day this story took place was just like any other Wren had seen since her arrival to Erebor. The Dwarves were feasting. Yet another Hall was full of tables, drink and food aplenty, conversations loud, and Wren sat at the head of the table, next to her husband. He was absorbed in a conversation with Gloin, and Wren paid well deserved attention to the roasted lamb in front of her. She was constantly hungry these days. She'd always had a healthy appetite, but the constant physical strain of vigorous physical love made her ravenous.

All of a sudden, a Dwarf at the other end of the table started a song, low, deep voice flowed, and then one Dwarf after another followed, their chanting intertwining and merging into a hum and a melody. The throaty, surprisingly reverent words of Khuzdul surged, filled the room, and all conversation died, more and more voices joining the vocalising. Wren didn't understand the meaning, and she admittedly had no ear for music, but she caught herself holding her breath.

"It is a mourning song." Balin's calm whisper came from her left, and she whipped her head. "It commemorates fallen warriors and their glory."

Wren folded her hands on the table, listening attentively. She knew enough Khuzdul to go around her day, but many words were unfamiliar. And then the King's velvet voice joined the singers, and the song changed. It became seemingly of a dialogue, between him and his men, where they would give him a line, which Wren quickly understood consisted of a name, and he would answer with a soft deep chorus, and Wren caught the words _"Ô, muneb kanâgê taslinîn gajij, amahhili ya..."_ Wren couldn't tear her eyes of his noble face, blue eyes gleaming, distant, black brows frowned.

"It is the oath of a King," Balin explained._ "Should my people fall then, surely I'll do the same."_

Wren's heart clenched, and she sat motionless, while the song unravelled.

It was done, the voices died out, and then one of the Dwarves raised his goblet. Everyone followed, and Wren picked up hers. It had water in it, she could not have any brew. It was known now, the King had declared it at the very beginning of the festivities in a tone that left no room for argument or judgement. But suddenly Wren realised she was to honour the memory of her people.

"Balin, I would like some wine," she announced loudly, and several heads turned to her, while quiet murmur ran through the Hall. "I will have one sip, I cannot have more, but I will not honour the fallen warriors of the Khazad with water."

The goblet was passed to her, everyone lifted theirs again, and Wren took a sip. She felt many eyes on her, but she held her head high.

The spell was broken, when a Dwarf sitting a few seats away from her loudly demanded another lamb leg. Everyone laughed, and went back to their food and conversing.

The King's hand found hers under the table, and she threw a look at him for the first time since the song was done. Emotions were splashing in his irises, and she blushed. She felt titillated and all her skin tingled, from the clear desire burning in his eyes, but she could also see tenderness and respect, and she smiled to him.

The feast continued, and Wren noticed that quite a lot of wine was poured into and drunk out of the King's goblet. He seemed unaffected, only the eyes grew brighter, the sapphire blue becoming darker and deeper as time ran by, and perhaps there was a tinge of a flush on his cheeks above the black beard. Wren wondered why he would drink more than usual.

"Perhaps, a different song is in order," someone called from the other end of the table. "How about _Tayidi gairuzirikrathkh ni 'd-dum_?"

Many laughed, and another voice answered, "Is enough ale drunk for that?" More laughter followed, and Wren threw a confused look at the King.

There was a smile hiding in the corner of his lips, and Wren's curiosity flared.

"What is this song?" she asked him in a whisper, and he smirked wider.

"It is of a frivolous sort… Nothing lewd, but… merry." Something told Wren that the King wasn't disclosing quite the whole truth.

"Frivolous? What is it about?" She moved closer to him, and he gave her a look from a whimsically cocked brow.

"It is a story of two lovers who ran away from home, and their family searching for them," Balin once again supplied Wren with an answer.

"And?" Wren asked, now turning to the white-bearded Dwarf.

"And they follow the star-crossed lovers trail from one inn to another, and find…" Balin searched for a word. "The evidence of the young couple's exuberance."

Wren frowned not understanding.

"Broken furniture mostly," the King whispered in her ear, and she jumped up. She hadn't been looking and hadn't noticed him move closer. His breath had brushed at her helix, and the ear burnt immediately. She screwed her eyes at him. His long nose was very close, and she blushed furiously.

The song started, it was once again sort of a dialogue. This time two sides of the table became the two groups of the characters in the song, one side clearly asking after the young runaways, and another representing the innkeepers upset with the damage their furniture had sustained.

The words were simpler in this song, and Wren understood that the list of pieces was given. First, the bed was discussed, then a table, and then chairs. With each round the descriptions were becoming more and more picturesque… and more and more telling. _"The table was broken..."_ one side of the hall lamented. _"How was it broken?"_ the other side asked. _"As it two people sat on it, and then jumped, and jumped, and jumped..."_ was the answer.

Wren giggled. The chairs had apparently been toppled over, and there were scratches on the floor, since the chair were pushed around, and then it was the wardrobe's turn, and its doors were open, one door leaf was broken off since _"someone grabbed its top and pulled, and pulled, and pulled."_ Wren quickly hid behind her goblet, since it had been just this morning that she had been holding to the top of her own wardrobe door, her legs wrapped around the King's hips, while he was grasping her hips firmly, thrusting into her, his feet set wide and firmly on the floor. Wren still remembered the sensation of the cold of the mirror on the door pressed to her shoulder blades.

The singers moved to benches, and then even a bathtub. Wren was almost choking on her water, and then the King's hand lay on her knee. His fingers moved, and Wren was momentarily confused at what he was doing, and then she realised he was deftly gathering the fabric of her skirts, bunching them up. She squeezed her knees. The fingertip brushed her thigh above the stocking, and Wren jerked.

Thankfully it was when the song ended, and she clapped with others. The King had no choice but to pull his hand from under the table for that, and Wren exhaled in relief. Her bloomers were moist, and she squirmed on her chair. The song had put her into quite a mood, and she wistfully wondered how soon they could leave their guests and go to their bedchambers.

"Will you sing for your wife, my King?" someone asked, and Wren was shaken out of her libidinous thoughts. She turned to the King to see his reaction. The request was apparently of the common nature, because the King didn't seem displeased with such familiarity and forwardness, but benevolently nodded and then gave Wren a small smile.

And then the song started. He sang alone, in a soft quiet voice, and Wren could understand it. _Nunganug, _'a tiny iris' was the word most repeated in it. And the story in the song was simple. _"I came to your house, bringing you a tiny iris, fresh and gentle, like you, but you were not at home..."_ The King's voice wrapped around the words, the melody was gentle and streamed without effort. _"I came to your wedding, bringing you a tiny iris, fresh and gentle, but you did not look, your eyes only on your new husband..."_

Wren's breath hitched, and then King smiled into her eyes. And it felt as if there were only two of them in the room.

"_I came to your grave, bringing you a tiny iris, withering and sad, and you were there to listen to the words of my love..."_

The song ended, and suddenly Wren jumped at her feet. The King looked at her in confusion.

"I need repose, my King," Wren blurted out, her cheeks flaming, and he rose as well, concern on his face. And then whatever he saw in her eyes made him understand. He quickly turned to Balin and said something short and pointed in Khuzdul. Wren's mind was so muddled that she didn't understand. She quickly excused herself before the guests, who were all staring at her, and the King bowed to them slightly as well.

She started coming from around the table, knowing that everyone's eyes were on her, and not caring the littlest. Her hands were shaking, her skin was flushed head to toe, and she swayed. The King lifted his hand to support her, and she winced away from him. She knew that even one touch would make her lose whatever composure she had left, and she would certainly regret the actions that would follow.

Wren rushed to the exit of the Hall, and the King followed. The courtiers opened the doors before them, and Wren thought she heard laughter and murmurs behind her, and suddenly she realised she didn't mind.

Her pale skin coloured easily, and she knew everyone could see her excited blush, and surely every person in that Hall knew where she led the King and what was to transpire, but somehow Wren couldn't find in herself a single speck of remorse or embarrassment. She was affected by her husband's singing and was planning to ravish him at the first chance. She was the Queen of the Dwarves, and they could understand. More so, she suddenly thought, perhaps such inappropriate behaviour would only play at her advantage. The people would know that the King was happily married, and that, though not of Dwarves, she was a good match for him.

The doors closed behind them, and she twirled on her heels and looked at the King. His pupils were dilated, lips slightly parted, amused anticipation in his features.

She stepped to the him and grabbed his belt, pulling him towards her. He barked a short laugh.

"I am... I need..." Wren wasn't sure what she was going to say, and instead she jerked him closer and caught his mouth. He readily opened his lips for her tongue, and she arched into him with a lustful demanding moan.

It wasn't enough. She started pushing him backwards, along the narrow side passage, and then into a wall.

His hands flew up and lay on her shoulders.

"Azyungeluh, perhaps we should find a quiet room..." he murmured, and Wren jerked his belt, throwing it aside, and the sides of his long outer coat flew open. There was a waistcoat underneath, and Wren grabbed the clasps on it and tugged, opening it. Her lips were on his throat, his head dropped back, and her teeth scraped at the bottom line of his beard.

Her head was swimming, her hands trembled violently, her undergarments drenched between her legs.

"I want you..." she rasped, licking his neck, her voice coarse and breaking. His eyebrows jumped up from such uncharacteristic directness. She had never pronounced such words, and the assertiveness was new as well. "I cannot wait… I cannot... I want all… Now..."

The King inhaled sharply, and tried to twist from under her greedy mouth. She made a growl like noise, and pushed her hand down, over his trousers, grabbing his length. He took a large gulp of air, with an open mouth, and then he dropped his head, with a quiet dull thud, chuckling in disbelief.

* * *

Wren suddenly dropped on her knees, and her fingers tangled into the strings on his trousers.

"Wren..." The King's voice was coarse. "Mahal help me...what came over you?"

"It's the singing," Wren mumbled, and the flap on the King's trousers was open, and she leaned in and pressed her burning cheek into his length, only separated from her skin by the thin linen of his undergarments. "That song... It is love, and death, and how they intertwine..." She then suddenly pushed away from him, and he met her mad, hungry eyes. "What does it matter? I am your wife, and I have the right..."

He barked a short laughter. "For lechery in frequented halls?"

"Anywhere I want," she answered haughtily, and he kept on gawking at her in astonishment.

"We will be caught..." His tone lacked certainty.

"Then tell me to stop." There was challenge in her tone, and then she untied the second set of lacing, and pulled his member out of the confinement of his garments.

Thorin closed his eyes, and pushed his head back again. "I would have... Had I drunk less..." The King shook his head. "Nay, I wouldn't have..."

The first long lick ran his member, from root to the tip, her tongue small and deft, and he groaned loudly. The first night he lay with his wife, on their wedding night, her small body was so overtaxed after what seemed like the first time for her, that they afterwards restrained themselves and only indulged in oral intimacy. Wren of Enedwaith turned out a quick and eager pupil. She now knew his tastes in such pleasures, and at the same time she managed to surprise him every time. He wondered how she could devise these new tricks he'd been shown, she had nowhere to learn them considering they hardly spent a second apart since then, and yet... Now she suddenly enveloped his member in a tight ring of her lips, and her tongue teased the ridge of the head. He moaned raspily. He felt her long strong fingers on his testes, and his body jolted. That -he hadn't taught her for certain. She sucked at the head of his member for a few seconds, the movements of her hand deliciously coordinated with her lips, and then she released him, with an indecent popping sound.

"Why _have_ you drunk so much?" she asked, and a series of long licks followed.

"I needed... to distract myself... Mahal help me... You are too tempting in this dress..." He threw a look down, at the tall collar, pearls and onyx decorating it, and the skirts scattered on the floor. She looked up at him, her eyes dark and lecherous, and then she licked her lips, and he stretched his hand down and run the tips of his fingers on the red mouth.

"I am all covered, my lord." There was sardonic tone to her voice.

"I know what is underneath it," he quipped, and she gave him a glare.

"Then it is not the dress' fault." He chuckled but then choked at his frolics, as she pulled his length in between her lips and down her throat. And then she pressed the hands into the wall, on the side of his hips, and allowed him even deeper, pushing her face closer to him, with a sniffled inhale through her nose.

A painful shudder ran through his body, and he clenched his fists. She rocked on her knees, letting her throat slide up and down his member, straining and relaxing her muscles in an intoxicating rhythm, and them her esophagus convulsed, she gagged, and jerked her back with the most lewd sound, coughing and gasping for air. He could hardly understanding anything, when she jumped on her feet, and he saw his poised, regal Queen bunch up her skirts. She wore the most unusual of garments, always white, always impeccable. Furs, silks, and lace - neither of Dwarven fashion, nor of Men - brushed, starched, and ironed, clean as the fresh snow on the peak of the Lonely Mountain... The attires were modest - her skin and her curves reserved only for him - but enticing and regal. Right now, she looked almost mad. The fiery curls were escaping the complicated braids, and indeed, she was pulling her skirts up for him! And then she turned her back to him! He saw the bottoms of her elegant bloomers peek from under the layers of skirts, and his mind muddled.

Thorin growled, grabbed her shoulders, pulling her in. One last, half conscious thought thrashed in his mind. He needed to remove her from the passage. Another moment of her demanding intimacy from him, and he'd lose his mind, and take her openly, just a pair of doors separating them from the guests.

"Now, Thorin!.. I need it now!" she as much as whined, and he made a few wide steps, to the nearest door, pushing her in front of him. She was trying to twist out of his grasp, to see him over her shoulder, to catch his mouth, and mahal knows what else, but he stepped ahead. Her body got pressed into a door, her palms splayed on it. She pushed her hips back, shamelessly rubbing her buttocks to his erection, and he snarled at her. The door opened, and they fell in.

* * *

The room was a small kitchen, probably used by the help, and he threw his wife inside, and she stumbled, and her hands fell on a table, arms straight. He stepped ahead, jerked her skirts up, and cupped between her legs roughly. She dropped her head and moaned loudly.

He was so muddled that he just couldn't remember the mechanics of taking undergarments off a woman's backside, so he just gathered handfuls of some gauzy material on her bloomers and pulled in two sides. The fabric tore, and he placed his hands on her hips, and he thrust his member deep into his wife. She hissed, he spat out a dirty swearing. He was almost blind from the flash of pleasure, and the from wave of some strange current running his body.

He shifted, placing his legs wider, and plunged his length into her again. She emitted a raspy cry. He repeated the action, again and again, each snap of his hips forceful, rough, making her whole small body as much as jump up. Her curls thrashed in the air, in rhythm with his thrusts, and her hands were jerkily moving on the table. At some point she cried out especially loudly, when he was even more harsh, and her arms gave in. She fell on the table, and he grabbed the skirts and pushed them up, baring her buttocks. They were round and pale, and he emitted an animalistic sound, and grabbed the two perky cheeks, his fingers sinking into the white skin. He proceeded to pound his hips. She mewled, and he saw her hands first flail on the wood of the table, and then her fingers curled over the edges of it. Her face was pressed into it, he could see one tightly squeezed eye, and the white knuckles of her hands. His movements were whipping, purposeful, and then rapture took him, as if from nowhere, without any prelude. He emitted a coarse cry himself, his fingers digging into her flesh, his hips, now in a stuttering rhythm, plummeting into her again and again, his member jerking in her, his seed spilling into her womb.

"No!" she screamed, her voice breaking. "No, not without me!.."

He could not think, but his body reacted to the frustration in her voice, and her hips now moving, her quim sliding up and down on his length. He squeezed his eyes, trying to fight the overwhelming pleasure, and she pushed up from the table, pushing him up as well, as he had fallen on her with the first spurt of his seed into her, and now she was pressing her back into him, her inner muscles spasming around him, demanding, and hungry. And then a shudder ran through her, and he could not hold back any more, but he did not have to, as she cried out and climaxed. A high pitch scream fell off her lips, and she fell on the table again. He managed to stop his body from slumping, his straight arms supporting him. His head dropped, hair falling on his face, curtaining everything from him, except for the view of his wife's copper head on the table. And then he groaned and closed his eyes, savouring the scorching pleasure in each muscle and vein.

* * *

"Maiar help me, what came over me?.." He heard his wife's small voice, and he peeked with one eye. She was lying on the table, still under his body, and he saw blush growing on the cheek turned to him. "I have never behaved thusly..."

"Are you intending to ever behave in the same manner again?" He couldn't hide the hopefulness in his tone, and she slowly turned her head and looked at him askew.

"I cannot promise I would be able to refrain..." she answered in an uncertain voice, as if asking him what he thought of what had transpired.

He straightened up with a groan, and she hissed from his member moving out of her. And then he saw red stains blooming on her pale skin of her backside, and the realisation of how rough he had been dawned on him. He immediately felt guilty.

"Wren, have I hurt you?" he asked, concerned. She shifted, just as him, with a pained groan, but when she turned to him and started straightening her garments, she didn't look displeased or hurt.

"Even if you did, I didn't notice. It was some sort of madness..." She looked around. "I don't even remember coming here..." Her tone was very surprised, but he needed to know she was alright. He had never been that inconsiderate in their love before. "It is all the song..."

"Wren, are you pained?!" he asked in a demanding tone, losing his patience, and she finally paid him attention. She met his eyes, and then suddenly she giggled and stepped to him. Her arms went around his neck.

"I have enjoyed our love, my King. I do not regret anything. It was perfect." Her face was blissful, eyes now sated and merry, but he saw a small bruise on her left cheekbone, probably from the table, and he felt sick. He had been too rough!

"Wren, I have been..." She paced her small finger across his lips, halting his words.

"It couldn't have been better. It happened just as I wanted. I am rather proud that our desires seem to agree so well. It has only been a few days, but we are in such an accord. Is it because you have so much experience?" she asked, sincere curiosity in her eyes. Once again, to his shock he saw no judgement in her eyes. He'd expected a wife of Men to abhor the promiscuity of the Khazad. His little Queen seemed to see it as a merit in her marital bed. "Is that why you can guess my wishes so well?" She seemed very pleased with the theory, and he pulled her close and tenderly kissed her lips. Now that it became clear she didn't take offence and in actuality even enjoyed such act, he was feeling increasingly better.

"I was not trying to meet your wishes, my libidinous Queen. You ravished me, and I lost composure," he pronounced in a feigned grumbly tone.

"Excellent," she answered gleefully, and he guffawed. She smiled widely to him, and then she pressed her temple to his in an innocent trusting caress. His heart clenched in an unfamiliar tenderness. He embraced her tightly, and her curls tickled his nose.

"So, what about that song? It is an old romance song, quite silly actually..."

"It was beautiful," she disagreed. "And I know it's mawkish, but I just thought..." She quieted, clearly embarrassed, and he moved away, cupped her face, and caught her eyes.

"What is it, my heart?"

"You will think it silly, but I just imagined how many times you could have fallen, and never come back for me to Bree, and I wouldn't have married you and wouldn't have known all this happiness..."

Thorin studied her face. He couldn't quite understand her, all these complicated emotions, but she then leaned in and kissed him, passionately and deeply, and he decided he would just leave the emotions to her, and enjoy the fruit of them.

"I am alive... And here..." he murmured into her lips, and she smiled into his kiss.

"You are. Oh, Thorin, you are!" She then laughed merrily, and to his surprise she moved away from him, and deftly jumped on the table, and spread her knees wide, her arms stretched to him in invitation.

He stepped between her legs, and pressed into her. He felt desire waking up again, and judging by the way she licked her lips, and how her legs went around his hips, she had been right, and their fire for each other was indeed in accord.

"Insatiable woman..." he murmured with pleasure, and she gave out a throaty laugh.

"We are alive, and here, and the table is just the right height..." she trailed away, and he caught her mouth.

* * *

Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, King Under the Mountain took two valuable lessons out of that day. First one was that he was one lucky Dwarf. And second was that his wife could always be put into mood by his singing. He used such ploy many times afterwards, immensely enjoying the resulting carnal frenzy overcoming her.

Wren of Enedwaith learnt that day that she didn't have to restrain the fervour she felt for her husband. And also, that hard surfaces, such as tables, left bright bruises on her skin, which she later on loved to look at in a tall mirror in her bath chambers, seeing that they seemed like badges of achievement to her.


	22. Morning

**Dedicated to Seltika (wonderful talented Selma from whowanderlost dot blogspot dot pt). Check out her blog for Thorin + Wren fanart! **

**Have you seen the behind the scenes material for the funeral scene in BotFA? You'd think one would cry, but it's to die for. So, Seltika and I were drooling over RA in it, and his "Morning..." Seriously, the bloke sounds like his head is in a barrel! **

**So, this little something was born... :D**

* * *

**1.**

Wren is floating in the blissful cloud of her sleep. She is not quite in the deep slumber anymore, and she feels sunrays travel on her nose, but she is warm, and comfortable, and the covers are tucked under her middle just the right way. She feels the tiredness in her muscles, they had quite an exuberant evening the day before.

The King came back to their chambers in a merry mood, after successful negotiations, and Wren was picked up, and kissed energetically, and after that it all just went wild. First, the King put her on the table, and while he was jerking his belt she had already pushed her bloomers down, bunching up her skirts. He wedged himself between her legs, she slid to the edge of the table, and their loving was rough, fast, and ended to the mutual, unified satisfaction.

After that they travelled to their bedchambers, where Wren saddled the King, facing away from him, and her efforts were so efficient that in his climax he bucked his hips so high that she flew off him, and off the bed.

He pulled her back on it, both of them laughing loudly, and he rolled her on her stomach, in her favourite pose, kissing her back, and gently biting her buttocks. She readily spread her legs, and he pushed into her, in a low pointed thrust. She moaned loudly, and he continued to pleasure her, through her encouraging cries, and two climaxes.

They moved to the bathchamber, where she washed him with her lilac scented soap, more for the purpose of lathering soft foam to his whole body, sliding her palms from the strong neck, to his wide shoulders, and clawing at his stomach, down to the hips, and to the hairy calves that she's embarrassingly fond of, and this pursuit drove her in such carnal frenzy, that she dove under the suds on the surface of their fragrant bath in order to inquire whether it was possible to perform a fellacio under water. It proved possible, but she had to resurface twice, entertaining the King with her hands meanwhile. She dove again, but she had to hurry up, the air was running out. She doubled her efforts, and at the very last moment he gently pushed her off, catching his seed in a towel on the side of the tub. After that the King returned the favour, both with soap, and with his mouth.

They slowly returned to bed, and she settled on his chest, just she always did, her cheek pressed over his heart, but some remnants of desire were coursing her blood, and she tentatively pushed her hand down his stomach, brushing the tips of her fingers to the root of his member.

He chuckled, "Is my Queen not satisfied?"

"Um..." Wren peeked at him with one eye, and nuzzled his chest. Between his pectoral muscles, the black and silver chest hair was the thickest, and it was her favourite spot. "Perhaps, just a bit more?" He guffawed and rolled her under him.

The last round was languished, and sensual, with words of passion mixed with moans, and he whispered of his love, and she returned the promises, and the pleasure took them, enveloping them into a warm cocoon of their own little world, of their marital bed, of their love, and their devotion, and they fell asleep, without untangling their bodies, his strong heart evenly beating pressed into her pulse.

Wren yawns and stretches, without opening her eyes, savouring the peace, and warmth, and the smell of their skin, and their love, mixed on the sheets. She rolls on her stomach, and the bed keels, under the extensive weight of a heavy Dwarven body, and the corners of Wren's lips curl up. She feels the heat of his body lick at her back, when he slides closer under the covers, and his breath feathery caresses her ear.

"Morning..."

* * *

**2.**

The King is walking down the Northern Halls, through a narrow passage. He is pondering between sharing his midday meal with his sister, and returning to his Halls. He doubts his wife is there at this time of the day. He woke up alone in bed this morning, she had already left to run one of the hundred errands she has planned for each of her days.

Thorin is in an excellent mood. It is Spring, the Kingdom is in peace, and he anticipates quite an evening tonight. Dain Ironfoot is coming for a visit, they have some reports from scouts to discuss. The matter is more of an excuse for excessive drinking and recollecting the glorious days of the past. Dain is also very fond of Thorin's Queen, and she returns the affection. Thorin can't wait for the dinner they will all share. Dis and Wren would listen to their fables, and Dain will boast shamelessly, and Wren will gasp, and Dis will shake her head in feigned disbelief.

Thorin turns around the corner and sees his Queen energetically marching towards him. There is an open book in her hand, two more clasped under the other elbow, and her eyes are running the lines on the page. A few feet away from him, she lifts her eyes, sensing someone's presence. And the brightest and widest of smiles blooms on her face.

He is in a flirtatious mood, but when is he not with her? He gives her a predatory look over, and wiggles his eyebrows. There is no one else in the passage, and he allows himself to be silly, and playful, and she is his wife after all, in Mahal's name! She blushed charmingly, and drops her eyes, only to throw him a flirtatious look from under her lashes. There's less and less distance between them, and he cocks one brow. She bites her bottom lip, and there is noticeably more bounce to her step. They approach each other, and she continues walking passing him, purposefully not looking at him. The wide white skirt brushes at his leg, and a bright orange curl bouncing near her ear catches his eye. He cannot suppress a grin, and then he throws a look over his shoulder, enjoying the view of her pert backside, and at the very last moment he leans in to her and murmurs, "Morning..."

The books fall on the floor with a loud thud, and she grabs his belt and jerks him to the nearest door. He is laughing, she is pulling at the buckle. They fall in some small utility room, he locks the door behind him, and she jumps at him and hangs on his neck. Her mouth is hot and demanding, and she nips his ear, and he grabs her under her buttocks, and pushes the bloomers aside, and her hand has liberated his member already, and he pushes her back into the wall, and it is quick, and hot, and so very gratifying. She climaxes almost immediately, sinking her teeth in his shoulder to hide her scream, and he follows in a jiffy.

She is hanging on him, her arms hanging along her body limp, like paws of a kitten, and she is panting.

"Good morning indeed," she breathes out, and he guffaws, helping her slide down. Her cheeks are rosy, and he pecks her lips, and then one more time, and she is smiling to him widely.

* * *

**3.**

Thorin wakes up in his bed, and it seems it's the middle of the night, and the room is dark, but then he sees that first touch of grey cold light on the window. It's almost dawn, and he pushes his hand to his left, searching for his wife in his usual habit, but the bed is empty, though still carrying the warmth of her body. He rolls and lifts his head. He cannot see much in the dark, although his eyes are trained after years of living dangerously and sleeping in unsafe camps all over Middle Earth.

He looks around the room, and with each moment there is seemingly more and more light streaming in, and he sees the desk by the wall, the surface they share and have bickering discussions of. Her books, his maps, her parchments, his registers, her quills, his quills, her drawings, his letters - everything scattered on the table, and then he notices something white on it. He looks carefully and recognises her stocking. It flew through the bedchamber last night. He snorts, and looks around the room again.

There's her robe thrown on the chair carelessly, his clothes are on the floor as well, taken off in hurry. There's the drawer of her chest pulled out, by half, and never closed. She was leaning into it, searching for something, when he entered the room, saw her bum sticking out, and more so wiggling, while she was industriously digging in some white lacy pieces of cloth, and he strode ahead, and grabbed the left half, knowing that she was fond of such ridiculous playfulness in the privacy of their bedroom. She stopped, and then looked at him over her shoulder. The eyes were brilliant, and then she turned, and threw that very stocking around his neck, pulling him down to her lips.

And then, still kissing him, she stepped aside, pulling him after her, the stocking on his nape, two ends in her hands. She led him to the window sill, and he helped her up, and he tore his mouth off her and laughed, because why hadn't they tried the sill before? It turned out too tall, but he pressed his hands in it, and leaned in, and she spread her legs, guessing his intentions. He covered her center with his mouth, licking at her folds, caressing the little bundle of nerves, and then returning to the folds again. Her quim was blooming under his tongue and lips, opening up, more and more rosy colour to it, and she was softly moaning, and he added one hand, spreading her more, and then his tongue snakes inside her, circling the entrance, and she shifted, lying back on the wide sill, and there she lay in front of him.

He picked up her legs, put them on his shoulders, and he once again stuck his tongue inside her, and his index finger slid lower, to the other entrance, rubbing the pink orifice, and she cried out sharply. She's quite fond of such caresses, and he pushed the very tip of the finger inside, while sucking at her, thrusting his tongue in and out of her rhythmically. The finger entered her deeper, and she emitted a raspy groan, and he rubbed the wall with the pulp of his finger, the wall closest to her quim, meeting the finger with his tongue through it, and she climaxed, hot liquid filling his mouth, and he groaned, close to completion himself. He stepped back, pleasant buzzing running through his body.

"Do you need help, my heart?" he asked softly, and she noncommittally waved her hand in the air, probably sending him to wash. He rinsed his mouth and hands in the basin by the wall, and went to pick up his Queen. She was still spread on the sill, one leg lazily dangling, eyes clouded and sated.

There were several more bouts in bed after that, and now the bed is empty. Thorin climbs off it with a groan, he fell on the floor some time after midnight, rolling off her not to crash her under his slumping body after another violent climax.

He finds his Queen on the balcony, in a thin nightgown, white and gauzy, hugging her subtle familiar body, all her beloved lines clearly visible in the moonlight and the first rays of dawn creeping from over the ridges of Misty Mountain. She is leaning on the railing, her elbows on the stone of it, one fist pushed under her cheek. A small smile is playing on her lips, and he comes up from behind, and hugs her, burying his nose in her fragrant orange curls. She pressed into him, and her hands cover his on her middle.

"Morning, husband of mine," she purrs, and he smiles into her soft waves.

"Morning..."

* * *

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**Facebook Writer's Page: Katya Kolmakov**

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modern romance/erotica humour story, initially written here}

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**My book on Amazon!**

**CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

**{my first novel**

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**Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

**_Summary:_**

_Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

_John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

_Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

_Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	23. Bed and Forges

**A/N: Initially, it was supposed to be a oneshot with the purpose of just writing this one position that I couldn't get out of my mind (it'll be at the end, and it's very risque, consider yourselves warned, me lovelies :D), but I can never just write a drabble, can I? So, it turned out to be about 9K words, and I chopped it in two parts. And remember, the more reviews, the faster the updates ;)**

* * *

**Love you all, my darling readers! **

**kkolmakov**

* * *

Sometimes Wren wonders what it is like to be married to a Man, and most of the time she is resolute that it would be endlessly more difficult. Dwarves are predictable, their values and their convictions are as if packed in those crates Wren keeps her dried herbs in. Quite quickly after her wedding to the Dwarven King, Wren understood the working of his mind. There are of course misunderstandings, but she has concluded that most of them happen when she lacks certain knowledge. Once another facet of his personality is known to her, she can address his vexations and arrange so that none of those tense moments repeat themselves.

Unlike many Dwarven women - and Wren has learnt of it quite quickly from her many friends and acquaintances, whom she meticulously acquired among those surrounding her - Wren does not find her husband's character aggravating. She knows of course that Dwarven women complain of many qualities characteristic to the males among the Khazad, but as soon as Wren is aware of a certain trait of the King, she just treats it as an ingredient in a potion - it has to either be carefully counteracted, or reinforced.

Wren does not think she is being submissive or meek. She loves her husband dearly, and she is madly in love with him, but she also knew whom she was marrying. The Dwarven King has temper, and he had seen two hundred Springs before he married her. He is also of the Khazad, and she was prepared for the rage, and the possessiveness, and the stubbornness.

All and all, Wren thinks these days that as long as she understands a reason for a certain predicament, she will be able to handle it.

* * *

Except for the last three weeks all she feels is a panicked confusion.

The King is uneasy, and irritated, and brooding. And she does not understand the reason. More so, he is not talking. His everyday behaviour does not indicate any trouble either, and Wren knows that for most he seems his usual self. But Wren is not 'most,' she is his wife. She has always had a talent for sensing the tiniest nuances in people's attitudes, and she knows something is off in how the King Under the Mountain bears himself these days.

He talks less, there is more frown. His movements are fractually more harsh, the doors are closed behind him with just slightly more force, the quills snap in his fingers, the fork often scrapes at the plate.

Wren is starting to worry, to observe harder, to try to catch the changes.

Their intimacy has changed as well, and it worries her most. When with others, he seems to forget his agitation, or suppress it better. He seems almost as he was before whatever frustrates him took hold of his mind, but when they are alone in their bedchambers Wren is almost fearful. Sometimes he turns away from her on their bed and goes to sleep without touching her. That has happened so rarely before, so it is the first alarm that tolls in her head making her brace herself in terror.

Sometimes everything seems to be just like before, and he pulls her to his lips, and there is an instant when she hopes that - whatever it was - it has passed, and his hands wander her body, and she arches welcoming the heat of his skin, and they intertwine on the sheets, and then suddenly she catches his eyes on her.

He is watching her. Attentively. With every opportunity he has. Soon, she understands that is the root of what is different. She catches him study her during meals, and when she is working in the library, and he passes through to the Armoury Wing, she feels his burning eyes on herself. And he watches her face when his body is weighing on her, and his hips thrust in her, and these unsettling inquisitive looks makes her blush, and that overwhelming pleasure she has always enjoyed in their loving - the feeling of being his, of melting into him, and possessing him, and that rightful claim she feels over him when their bodies come together - the love she feels in their intimacy feels lacking.

And then he stops looking at her. Not only the unnerving studying is gone, he seems to hide his eyes, and purposefully avoid looking at her.

She starts watching him herself. And soon she understands that he is fighting an internal battle. There is something worrying him, and sometimes he manages to shake it off, and he is seemingly trying to return to their previous accord, but then he loses the next fight, and he is dark, and cold, and almost angry with her. She asks a question, and he barks a snide remark back, and then he hurriedly adds a few more words, to soften the previous answer. They are bussing in the bed, and then he stops, and while she is still moving, rubbing her body to his, kissing his jaw, she notices he is rigid, and his hands are fisted on the sheets.

* * *

Wren decides to take the matter to her hands. She is anxious, almost fearful. This grave cloud over her marriage terrifies her. But she has watched, and has examined, and she now knows that this distress the King is experiencing is indeed originating in their association. And now, with time it seems to affect his other matters, but only consequentially. Nothing but his marriage disquiets the King, and Wren spends an evening sitting in her study, making a decision.

She concludes that it is her duty as his wife to solve it. She is fearful for herself, she wonders if she has done something unforgivable. She cannot think of anything, but again, she lives among the Khazad, there is much she still does not know.

She eventually wonders if the King has just grown tired of her. Somehow in all her insecurity, in all her doubts of self-worth, never has she thought such day can come. When he came for her in Bree, she gleefully agreed to be his. Even before he proposed marriage, she knew she would go with him, wherever he asked her, as his mistress, as his concubine, even for one night - she would agree and give him anything. When he offered her to be his Queen, she could not believe her happiness. And for some inconceivable reason - and now, that she is wracked with doubts and fears, she cannot even summon why it never came to her mind - she never assumed he could change his mind.

Perhaps, now he has. With surprise Wren notices a drop of water fall on the polished surface of her desk. She lifts her hand and wipes the tears she has not realised were running down her cheeks.

She spends another hour pondering and arrives to the decision that she needs to help the King. One thought thrashes in her mind. It is not quite a common one, and Wren would probably refrain from sharing it with any other woman around her, but it lies in the very core of her love for the King. He is her friend. Besides being her lover, and her husband, he is also a man she admires, and who showed her nothing but respect and admiration. She wants all the best for the man who has always been noble, honourable, and brave. He is the King of the Khazad, and he is Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror. She loves him and only wishes well upon him. If he is distressed, she needs to help him.

She does not blame herself, after a long consideration she is almost certain she did everything right. She has been a good wife to him, and a good Queen. They have done right by each other. And he owes her nothing, he has been generous and fair. Just as her, he shared himself, and gave himself without restrictions.

Something is awry in their marriage now, and Wren decides that her duty is to address it, even if it means a heartbreak for her.

* * *

She jumps on her feet and marches to the King's study where she knows he is. They had dinner several hours ago. It was in the company of his nephews and Dis, and the King was especially dark faced and quiet. Wren tried to sustain conversation with their relatives, but it died out quite quickly. Kili in his usual perceptiveness excused himself earlier, leaving the uncomfortable atmosphere, Fili threw him a confused look, and Dis was moving food on her plate.

Wren feels that in the last few days the King's state has worsened. He has been spending his evenings in his study, and Wren is well aware there is not much for him to do there. She has just received a letter from King Thranduil discussing how well the trade is going and how peaceful the times are. It is midwinter and no restoration is happening in Erebor. Everything has slowed down, and the Khazad are enjoying the prosperity in the warmth and comfort of their homes.

Last night the King came to their bed just a few hours before the dawn, and Wren suspects it was done to spend as little time with her as possible. He knows she gets up with the first light, many errands awaiting her, and indeed she rose from the bed, and left the bedroom. She now wonders if he was even asleep. His back was turned to her, and she gave him a frustrated look over. The ebony and silver strands were scattered on their pillows but he was on the other side of the bed.

Wren misses him painfully. They have always slept intertwined, and although for some it could feel suffocated, she adored being pressed into him, encircled in his strong arms.

She has also grown accustomed to copious amount of carnal pleasures that a marriage to a Dwarf entitles. The past week they lay together twice. She wonders if that is what a marriage to a Man would be like. Wren cannot say she finds it at all satisfying.

* * *

She pushes the door to his study and finds him by the window. He is staring into the darkness behind the glass, his arms are folded on his chest, in his habitual gesture. The brows are drawn together, storm raging in the blue eyes. The lips are twisted in an irked grimace. Wren closes the door softly behind her.

"Thorin?" she calls him, and he jerks and turns, surprise and immediate irritation on his face. "Could I speak to you?" His lips twitch, and she could almost imagine that he was going to snark back something akin to 'Why do you even ask permission?' but then he reins his temper and nods. He gestures towards the armchair, but once she sits he remains standing. He is now looming over her, and she feels suffocated although he keeps distance between them.

"My lord," she starts. "I can see you are distressed. Something concerns you, and I now think it is I who caused it. I would like to address it," she speaks in a calm firm voice. _He is my friend, he is my comrade, I need to assist him_, her mind whirs again and again.

She has of course thought of the worst. _He is bored with her, he regrets marrying her, he feels trapped, but being a Dwarf he would never question the sacred nature of marriage._

She of course imagined how irritated he is, with her, with her presence. She imagined in greatest details how irked he feels when he sees the smallest details, the traces of her presence: her belongings, her voice, her smell. He bedded her, and she wonders if it was only out of sense of duty. She gives him credit, she doubts he would do it out of pure lust, just to satisfy his urges. And he was tender and considerate. A week ago he was still sometimes rough, seemingly losing his composure, and then reining it again, and covering the places he squeezed too hard with soft kisses. Two night ago he was almost melancholic, as if apologetic, and Wren cannot take it anymore.

Right now, the King is studying her face, frowning, and she returns his gaze directly.

"I hoped I was hiding it well," he speaks in a low voice, and her hearts sinks. Before he answered, there was still a small chance she was wrong, and imagined all of this unrest, and now it cannot be denied.

"What worries you, Thorin?" she asks, her body aching. She has not realised how tense every muscle in it is, but she is as if bracing herself before a blow. To think of it, it is exactly what is happening. He is likely now to inflict a mortal wound upon her.

_I am his friend, his wife, even if he does not desire me anymore. I need to help him. We can find a solution. It is still him, still Thorin, he will do everything in his power to bring least damage to me._ She repeats these words like a prayer in her mind, reassuring herself, but her eyes prickle, and she squeezes her jaws, to take her nervous tremours under control.

He studies her some more, and then his face wavers, and he turns away, pretending to be preoccupied with pouring some mead into a glass.

"It is nothing… I am just exhausted." His voice is lifeless, and Wren sighs. He is not even looking at her.

"My lord, I feel we should speak openly. Do not underestimate me, be so kind. I see your agitation, it is impossible to ignore. I do not wish to continue this way."

Wren wonders where this firmness and this composure come from. Perhaps, she thinks, it is because she has spent the last moon imagining all the worst possible things, and anything is better than the torture she has experienced.

He throws a look at her, from under frowned brow.

"It is indeed of no importance, Wren. I apologise if I showed my foul mood. But there is nothing to discuss."

"Do you wish our marriage to annul?" she blurts out. Some part of her mind is surprised that her uncontrollable habit of blabbering the most unfortunate of lines has not shown itself before.

He twirls on one spot and gawks at her aghast.

"What?!"

"Do you wish our marriage to annul?" she repeats, and then with a sigh she drops her head. She is more drained that she thought. She thought she could come and have a reserved conversation with him, but all she feels now is pain and fear, and she locks her hands to find some anchor in the dizzying panic that makes her head spin. "I know it is not done among the Khazad, but we could find a way if you do not wish to stay my husband. I could abide elsewhere, or..."

"Wren, have you hit your head?" His low, raspy answer makes her lift her face, and it is her turn to stare at him. "Why would I want to separate from you?"

"You are clearly unhappy in our marriage. And I do not want to force you into it if that is what our marriage is going to be like."

"I am quite happy in our marriage," he answers haughtily, and Wren feels a minuscule stir of irritation. She wonders if he thinks her dim.

"You clearly are not," she answers, keeping their gaze locked. "You are irritated, you are unpleasant, and you bang things." That does not come out as a reasonable argument, and to confirm how unfortunate her wording was the King narrows his eyes at her. Wren rushes to amend, "Thorin, let us speak openly. You are distressed, and it is our marriage that causes it. You have just said you hoped you hid it better. Stop hiding it, and just speak already!" Her voice rises, and he gives her a glare, tilting his head back. That is the disdainful look down his long nose she had seen him give to others. She is momentarily wounded, she does not deserve this treatment, but then she thinks that it is nothing but a defensive move from him.

"Thorin, what is it? I am certain I have done nothing wrong, but you are clearly displeased. I cannot see how we can continue the way it is now. It has been going on for a moon. You are avoiding me, your mood swings. Others are starting to notice. Last week at the training you lost composure, and Fili paid the price..."

"So that is what worries you? Fili's well-being?!" the King hisses through his gritted teeth, his face suddenly enraged, lips white, and Wren freezes with her words stuck in her throat. She does not understand his reaction.

The incident she has referred to took place a week after she started noticing the changes in the King's behaviour. During a swording practice the King lost his temper, and his training sword inflicted real damage. Fili still has his arm in a sling. Wren's daily training sessions with him have been cancelled. The healers give him another two weeks until he will have full possession of his arm.

"Of course, I care about Fili's well-being. I do not understand why it surprises you, after all..." she does not get a chance to finish her statement when the King emits a raspy furious half growl, half scream, and hurls his goblet into the wall. Wren jumps up in her chair, pressing her hands over her mouth.

"You.. you… you do not get to..." he mutters, his face twisting in one expression over another, rage, pain, and more rage replacing each other, and Wren is watching him in terror. She is paralysed in her chair, and then he fists his hands, and sneers through clenched teeth, "You need to leave now, Wren. I do not control myself… Let me… think it over..."

And that is when Wren feels livid.

"You had had a moon to think it over!" she spits the words into his face, in almost a scream, and then she rises slowly and takes a step towards him, pointing her finger into his face. "You clearly are troubled, and you have been brewing in your own frustration for a moon, and I am tired of it!" The more she speaks, the easier it gets, as if she is gaining strength from the sound of her own enraged voice.

"Wren, I can handle..."

"You clearly cannot!" It is her turn to hiss. "You are not allowed anymore! You are not to turn my life into another string of days and nights of nightmare, of waiting for you to snap, and for second guessing everything I do and say. Speak now!" she shouts at him, and for the good measure she takes a step towards him, intending to poke him with her finger if he does not start talking that very instant.

"I am jealous!" he roars, and she winces away from him, from the sheer volume of his voice, and from the shock of the meaning of his words. She cannot gather enough wits to even ask 'What?'

The King then presses his lips together, and glares at her. Wren's mind thrashes.

"Of what? Of whom? Who are you jealous of?" She truly does not understand. She wonders whether he is jealous of sharing the rule with her, but the thought is preposterous. Is he jealous of his kin accepting her? That is even more absurd.

"I told you it was of no importance," he snarls. "There is nothing to discuss. There is no blame on you, and I just… We will just forget about it," he deadpans, ordering, not asking. Wren feels rebellious.

"Forget about it?! I do not even understand it, how am I to forget it?"

"Wren, just leave!" he growls. "I kept it under control for a moon, I can continue..."

"You have been torturing me for a moon, damn you! Just speak up already!" That is when she finally reaches the limit of her composure. "I am very, very displeased with you right now!" She understand she is using a tone more suitable for scolding a child, but the King suddenly stops in his tracks and stares at her. Wren is taking sharp spasmodic breaths in. "Talk right now, or sleep in forges in the next fortnight!" His jaw drops, and Wren goes as far as stomp her foot. "Aye, that is how it is going to be. Either we solve this aggravation now, or no more comfortable sleep in our bed for you."

Somewhere at the back of her mind she knows this is ridiculous. She cannot make him do anything, she has no power over him. But her nerves are overtaxed, and then she tells herself she is his wife and the Queen. She has every right to do whatever she wants, among other things kick her stubborn husband out of their bedchambers.

"Threats do not work on me," he bites back, but his tone lacks confidence. She narrows her eyes at him.

"Then enjoy your night in the forges!" she sneers, and stomps to the door. He is silent behind her, and she does not turn around. She knows one thing: there is no shorter path to a defeat that an empty threat. She is not going to waver.

* * *

She marches through the passages, enters their halls, and closes the door being her with a bang. And then she exhales sharply and locks it. The gesture is purely symbolic, there are two more entrances in the halls, and he would need to come here even if he does not sleep with her. Their bath chambers, wardrobes, and private dining hall is here, but she feels she needs to send a clear message.

She plops on the bed and pulls covers over her head. The night of course ends up being sleepless, and at the morning Wren has an excruciating headache. She takes medicinal herbs and goes about her day.

* * *

And then two more.

They do not see each other. She has meals either in her study, or in their rooms, and he does not come. In the evening of the third night she thinks she can hear him move in the parlour adjoint to their bedchambers, but he does not enter. She is lying unmoving in the bed, staring into the dark. The entrance door bangs, and she exhales. She is not sure what she is feeling, but it surely is at least fractionally relief. She is indeed very displeased with him.

She rolls on her side and ponders. He clearly had imagined something, there was some aggravation that was weighing on him, and he himself knows it is unfounded. Which means that he was mistreating her and punishing her for a moon without having a reason for it. He has not lost his love for her, he invented some ridiculous trouble, and instead of talking to her about it he is brooding and wallowing in it. Wren considers such behaviour dim, childish, and harmful towards others. She does not feel sorry for him.

Except the sheets carry the smell of his skin, and she is cold. Even with his neglectful behaviour of the last moon, sleeping in the same bed with him was a bliss. And then she wonders where he sleeps this night, and whether he is comfortable. There is the old wound in his right leg, and his lower back aches in the days of snowstorms, and she always makes sure to add the right herbs in his baths and rub balms in his joints to alleviate the pain.

Wren tosses and turns, trying to stay angry, but with the first rays of dawn light she has half a mind to find him. She was ready to take care of him when she thought he wanted to abandon her. Even less so, she is capable of ignoring his needs now, in the midst of a small marital tiff.

She is also worried what it looks like. Surely, some already noticed that the King did not sleep in his bedchambers, and rumours will start soon. She wonders what is the wise thing to do. Perhaps, she should talk to him. Invite him back to their halls, and then she herself can sleep in her study. There is a large comfortable divan there. This way she does not give up her positions, but the illusion of propriety is established.

But then Wren remembers advice she once received from a woman in Bree, long time ago, when Wren had no hope to even have a husband. The woman had to stay in the infirmary because of a large laceration on her thigh. She was a wife of a baker, round and merry, and she told Wren that in case of marital unrest the man had to be made to leave, and never the woman. Leaving, banging the door behind herself was very unwise, the woman said. This way the man would stay home, in comfort, and peace, without constant nagging, and with each day he would enjoy his comfort more and more, and he would think he was right to start with. 'Make him suffer, in cold and hunger, make him remember how good it was in your bed, how delicious your cooking was. It is best if he has to stay in stables, or in his shop, where it is dirty, and cold. It is best if it is Winter. They do not appreciate us until they lose it. He will think of clean sheets, and warm food. And when he crawls back, make sure there is his favourite food on the stove, and wear something soft and pretty, and let it smell nice in the house.'

Wren sighs and makes herself go to sleep alone in the spacious bed.

* * *

The fourth night comes, and there is a knock at the bedchamber door.

**_To be continued..._**

* * *

**My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

**Facebook: Katya Kolmakov**

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{_Blind Carnival_

modern romance/erotica humour story, initially written here}

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**My book on Amazon!**

**CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

**{my first novel**

**inspired by the story initially written here}**

**Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

* * *

**_Summary:_**

_Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

_John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

_Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

_Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


	24. Forges and Bed

**A/N#1: Have you checked my Writer's Facebook Page? Just type katyakolmakov as the Facebook address. I post updates, doodles, fanart, and lots of other silly stuff there. Who knows, you might want to check out my blog and JukePop for couple modern romance/humour webserials. After all, we all know who "Dr. Oakes" really is ;)**

**A/N#2: So... here is the second half, and remember that position that I wanted to write? Yeah... it's risque. Nothing more M than M, but... hopefully, fun! Consider yourselves warned, my duckies :)**

* * *

The fourth night comes, and there is a knock at the bedchamber door. Wren has just taken a bath and is drying her hair in front of the fireplace. She panics momentarily, but then she draws a deep breath in and quickly takes the necessary steps. She hastily unbraids half of her hair, which she had already put away in a plait, she fluffs up her curls now scattered on her shoulders, and shakes off her robe. The nightgown is sufficiently alluring, and she picks up the brush, schools her face in an haughty expression, and marches to the door.

She has recognised the knock, but she is still sharply and deeply affected by the view of the King standing at the threshold. She gives him a look over and lifts one brow.

"We need to talk, Wren." His voice is low, and she understands he tries to sound imperious. On the other hand, she is married to him, she knows his tells. There is insecurity hiding in his irises. She steps aside, letting him in, and then she walks to the fireplace and sits back on the soft rug she occupied previously. She slowly runs the brush along her curls, tangling the fingers of another hand in them.

The King is standing by the door, probably fuming, but at the same time Wren notes he is slightly uncertain. She also noticed the overall air of disarray around him. His hair is disheveled, and the tunic is rumpled. There are shadows under his eyes. He does not look unhealthy or drained, but he clearly did not get enough sleep. Wren continues her brushing, as if she cannot feel his heavy glare fixed on her.

And then he steps ahead and sneers through gritted teeth, "Would you look at me already?"

That is a wrong move, she wants to tell him. She pauses, allowing the tense silence to ring in the room, and then she slowly and pointedly puts the brush down, near her knees, and lifts her eyes at him. Her face is a mask of polite interest.

He is as much as panting, the face is dark, and the muscles are dancing on the jaw under the black beard.

"You cannot throw me out of my own bedroom!" He is snarling. "I am no dimwitted... henpecked... lulkh..." He switches to Khuzdul, sounds harsh in his throat. "It is my… mountain!" He is so livid - but also as if confused and almost helpless - that his words come out jumbled. Wren is surprised to notice she is calm.

"Of course, I cannot. All this mountain is yours, and you have the right to sleep anywhere you want." Her even tone makes him throw a suspicious look at her. "If you wish to return to your chambers, I do not see any obstacles to it. I will find myself another room."

"No, you will not!" he roars. "We will discuss this cursed aggravation, and it will all end! Now!"

Wren of course does not point it out that it was supposed to be done at the very beginning, even before that moon that he tortured her through, but she is tempted. She sighs and expresses the readiness to listen on her face.

He clenches and unclenches his fists, and then gives out a sharp exhale.

"I was wrong. I should have spoken to you to start with. But I knew my suspicions were absurd, and I thought they would go away. So... that is all. It is done now. We will now just forget them." All of it is spoken hurriedly, and sounds like a recitation of a lesson hastily drilled into a schoolboy.

Wren gives him an incredulous look. She cannot believe he would assume this jumbled blabber would be enough to even start mending the discord they are having. Judging by his relieved face, that is indeed his conviction. For an instant, Wren is not even sure what to do: to yell at him, to start a long convoluted explanation that, as Wren knows, men hate, or make him go back to the forges, or wherever it was that he slept the previous three nights.

She sighs and rises. She considers that the same tone she took with him last time they talked might be her best option. Wren decides to speak his language: she organizes her thoughts and puts them in concise unemotional statements.

"I am very upset, my lord. I had spent a month torturing and doubting myself. I thought you did not love me anymore and just could not bring yourself to tell me of it."

"What?!" His jaw slacks ungracefully. "Why would it even come to your mind?!" Wren gives him an exasperated look.

"You were cold and sometimes impolite towards me. Our love was sparse, and I could feel you acted differently. I made a logical assumption." He opens his mouth, perhaps to argue, but then closes it with a loud clank of teeth. He is pondering, Wren is waiting patiently.

Whatever is happening, Wren does not doubt her husband's acumen. He is a cunning politician, a very apt strategist, and altogether far from an idiot. He is quickly evaluating the situation, his face in a cold mask, and then his eyes lose the distant look, and he focuses on her.

"You are punishing me now, for a moon of emotional pain," he pronounces slowly, and Wren gives it a thought. She has to agree, he is right - at least partially.

His eyes are studying her, and there is some dangerous light in them. She gives him a pointed look. She can see a corner of his lips twitch, and he tilts his head in a ceremonial nod.

"And you have every right to, my Queen. My behaviour was erroneous."

Even Wren, as inexperienced as she is in the matters of heart, knows that one should not mentioned the mistakes of the past that could not be fixed. No one appreciates a statement that starts with 'you should have...' Wren needs to address the current situation and gain most merit out of their misunderstanding to ensure it does not repeat itself.

"I want to know what happened," she speaks in a firm voice. "What made you distressed and why you did not speak to me. And I want both of us to remember what transpired and try to never make the same mistakes again."

She verbally places blame on both of them, but judging by almost unnoticeable humour dancing in the King's blue irises she is not deceiving him. The both know he is the one here to admit faults, apologise, and grovel.

He gives her a look over, and she feels suddenly hot. Perhaps, her preparations for this conversation were too thorough. She knows he can see her body through the gauzy chemise, and the hair has dried by now, it is a flaming halo around her head, fiery waves go down her back to her buttocks. She cares not for her hair, but he is a Dwarf. There are two thick braids hidden in her mane, he plaited them himself, and one has almost gone undone now. His eyes run down it, to the bead that slid at the bottom, and he steps closer.

"While I talk, allow me to braid your hair, my heart," he asks, and she knows the velvet, almost purr like tone is purposeful. Muscles clench under her navel. They have not touched each other for seven days, the longest since they were wed, and her body is burning.

"No," she pronounces firmly, and he freezes, mid air, he was already lowering himself near her on the rug.

He is tricking her. She has to give him credit: he is devious. She only now realises that the soft tunic with top buttons open, the linen trousers, and the overall rumpled modest look on him is no accident. Just like her, he had prepared. She catches the smell of his soap, juniper and pine oils, on his skin and on his hair, and the spicy fragrance - male, fresh, so him - underneath. So, he has taken a bath and chose the garments that made him look devastated, submissive, vulnerable, and so endlessly alluring!

Wren gets up with a jerk and marches to the armchair. She sits on it, tucking her feet underneath her. One strap falls off her shoulder, and his eyes fly to the pale skin on it. Wren does not fix the strap, but when he looks into her eyes - and there is so much lust burning in his blue irises that she has to suppress a gasp - she narrows her eyes at him.

"Speak, my lord."

He holds a pause, and then shaking his head softly, he sits down on the rug. It is clearly a cunning move as well. He has to look up to meet her eyes, and she cannot say the view does not affect her. He has long thick lashes, quite unexpected on a severe Dwarven warrior. The tip of his tongue runs his bottom lip, and Wren's breathing hitches.

"I was jealous, my Queen," he speaks, his eyes roaming her chest, and she gestures him to continue by a small wave of her hand. He shakes his head again. "I had no reason, and I knew I was being… senseless. I thought I would wait, and it would pass. It did not." It feels as if he is pulling each word out of himself like an arrowhead stuck in a muscle.

"Jealous of what? I still do not understand. Were you jealous of me?"

"Of you, of course. And… Fili."

His words hang in the room, and Wren forgets that this whole conversation is also a game of seduction.

"What?!" she cries out. "What sort of madness is this?! What does it have to do with Fili?"

The King sees her reaction, and the salacious fire is gone from his eyes. He sits up straighter, and Wren can see tension in his shoulders.

"I told you, I knew I was being absurd. But I saw the two of you… And the way you looked at him, and the gazes he returned, and I just could not stop..."

"There were no gazes!" Wren raises her voice, and then she jumps off the armchair and freezes in front of him. "Thorin! I do not even know what to say… Or what to think… And I do not want to explain myself, or make excuses, because there is no blame on me! And I do not have to… address your absurd notions!"

"I do not need your excuses," the King grumbles. "And they would not help."

"What were you thinking? And why Fili?! I cannot even understand! I spend as much time with him as with any other of your kin, or your warriors, and..."

"I walked into the yard, and the two of you were training. It looked… vigorous."

"Vigorous?!" Wren's voice breaks into a squeak. "What does it even mean?"

"He was holding you in his arms, and you were laughing… Wren, do we have to talk of it?" The King's face distorts in a grimace.

"Aye, we do! I was training, and by your request, may I remind you, and now it turns out…" Wren gasps, and flails her arms in the air. "And what did you think? That we were having an illicit affair?"

"I did not think anything! Thoughts were not my problem!" he growls. "I know you are innocent, both of you!" The King taps his finger to his temple. "In my mind of course I know, but I would close my eyes and see it. Again and again, how you… clung to him!"

"I did what?" she yells, and steps to him. Now she is looming over him, and giving him a murderous glare. "I never, after promising myself to you, has... clung to anybody but you! And the fact that I have to even postulate this nonsense is… inconceivable!"

"I know, Wren," he raises his voice as well now. "I trust you, and I kept on telling it to myself. I just could not help myself."

Wren returns to her chair, in the same pose, and crosses her arms on her chest.

"Wren, I have already asked forgiveness for my behaviour." Wren distinctively remembers that he has not.

"What have you asked forgiveness for, my lord?" Wren mumbles, still perplexed and agitated by the King's admission. "For having those thoughts? For not discussing them with me? For mistreating me for a moon?" And then she suddenly gasps loudly and her hands fly up to her hair, pulling at her strands. "You nearly killed him! Fili! You have injured him!"

"Wren, do not paint a complete brute out of me! It was an accident!" There is certain arrogance to the King's tone, and Wren frowns.

"You lost control!" She is staring at him, and he sighs.

"I have, but it could have been any other in his place. I let my anger take over, but I was not trying to inflict pain on Fili specifically. Just as I said, I trust you both."

"It matters not! You have just said you still had all those suspicions, and it indeed could have been any other! Who will it be next time?! Balin?! Dwalin?! Am I not allowed to talk to men? Or women too, for that matter? I had had an affair with a woman before our betrothal! Am I only to speak to children now?! And should I still keep a safe distance from them not to be accused of… clinging?!"

The King's was giving her a heavy look just a second ago, but now she sees the line of his lips to relax, and the corners twitch. She feels furious. Entertaining him was the last thing she was aiming for.

"Wren, I have admitted and apologised for all of the above. Especially, for upsetting you, and distressing you for a moon, and no, you do not have to change anything in your behaviour. It is impeccable."

She suddenly sees him shift on the rug, closer to her knees. She presses back into the armchair, giving him a defiant look.

"And you have already forgiven me, my heart, have you not? A kind and generous soul such as you are." His voice drops, rumbling in his chest, and she feels the heat coming from his body, through the thin fabric of her nightdress on her knees.

"No, I have not!" she hisses at him, and he moves even closer.

"No?" One eyebrow goes up, cocked, the angle whimsical, and Wren gulps. "That is a shame, my heart. Does it mean I will have to spend another night on the settee in my study?"

"A settee? So, you have not even slept in the forges?" Wren berates herself immediately after this flirtatious line falls from her lips.

"No one actually sleeps in forges, my heart. It is just an expression," he purrs, and now he is standing on his knees in front of her armchair. "Just something stroppy Dwarven wives say."

"Pity," Wren bites back, and he chuckles.

"If it is required to appease you, my heart, I could of course. But it is rather noisy there." He is still not touching her, but it is not necessary. Something is shaking inside her, from the thrill of his proximity, but she is still fighting it.

"I do not require gestures to appease me. I still have not recovered from your confessions, my lord. And the previous moon has taken quite a toll on me. I did not feel safe in my marriage anymore, and it wounded me in most excruciating way." She feels she spoke harshly when she sees his face drop. She wants to rush to reassure him, but then again, she has not lied just now. "For weeks I thought you did not desire me anymore, and now it turns out you were harbouring such preposterous, offensive thoughts, and..."

"Forgive me, Wren," the King speaks suddenly, his tone sincere and direct, and Wren bites into her bottom lip.

"Will it happen again?" she asks, helplessness laced in her tone. She knows it is a silly question, and that no one can answer it for certain. Perhaps, she wants him to just promise, even if they both know he cannot guarantee it.

"I do not know, my heart," he answers, keeping their eyes locked, and she feels a prickle of pain in her heart. "But I swear to you if it ever to happen again, I will talk to you of it."

This answer feels thousand times better than a promise she had hoped he would give.

Wren takes a deep breath in, and looks at her husband. He is sitting on the floor at her feet, and his eyes are calmly studying her face. Now, that the storm has passed and she feels certain and safe in her marriage again, she is ready to return to the game.

"I cannot promise that, if your unreasonable jealousy shows its ugly muzzle again, you will not be sent to sleep in forges again."

The King evidently catches the suggestiveness in her tone, and the expression in the blue eyes changes from ardent and earnest to… quite indecent. He rises on his knees again, and moves to her. She cannot hold back a soft grasp when his middle presses into her knees.

"You are not that cruel, my Queen. Surely, a spot can be found for me in these chambers."

"Do not feign compliancy, my lord. I know you all too well. If allowed in these chambers, you will take the bed, and then take more than half of it, leaving me no room." He throws a look over his shoulder at the bed at the other end of the room, and sighs loudly and wistfully.

"I have missed the bed. And the sheets. And dinners in our parlour. You have deprived me of my greatest pleasures, my stern Queen." He slowly places his hands on the seat of the armchair, near her hips, still not touching her.

"You are a Dwarf. You are to thrive in bare surroundings," Wren remarks sarcastically.

"But I am old, Wren..." The King's voice dives lower, into the deep baritone that always affects her so much. "I am past the time when I could sleep on bare ground and eat dried meat for weeks." He leans in and brushes his cheek to her knee slowly. The comparison with a giant wild cat comes to Wren's mind. He is just as dangerous as a mountain lion. "I need my comfort."

Wren is trying to hide how shallow her breaths are, and how tightly she is squeezing her knees, but she knows he can see right through her. He presses the other cheek to her lap and throws a look up at her. Under one hiked brow, his bright eyes are twinkling with mischief, and desire, and the thrill of chase. She swallows. The game excites her no less than him, and she wants to prolong it.

"Then perhaps you will think twice next time you decide to aggravate your wife." Her remark lacks a bite, she sounds too breathy, and he chuckles.

"Perhaps," he murmurs, and then he presses his lips to her knee, through the lace of the gown. One of his hands lies on her leg, encircling it, and he slowly moves it up, picking up the fabric on the way, baring her skin, first on the knee, then on the thigh. The other hand lies on the already naked knee.

"So, is it the bed and the board that you missed, my lord?" Wren asks haughtily, and he presses a small kiss to the inner side of her knee.

"Aye, I have missed my bed, and my table..." he whispers into her flesh, and then he pushes the knees apart. He is not forceful, he is testing the waters. She is hesitant, and then she sees the corner of his lips rise in a lopsided smirk. "In my bed I missed this silk..." His hand brushes at her hip. "And this flavour on my tongue..." He places an open mouthed kiss to her thigh, and she feels his tongue brush at the skin.

Wren exhales, with a small moan, and he has been waiting for this signal. His palms push harder, and she lets him. She moves her legs, and they lie on two sides of his body. Moisture is pooling between her thighs, the gown is drenched underneath her, and he leans in. The palms slide up her legs, and he strokes the hipbones with this thumbs.

He spreads her knees wider and moves in. The first lick across her folds is tender, careful, with a relaxed tip of his tongue, and she emits a half groan, a half squeak. Her body is starved, she has not had him for days, and she is oversensitive after the emotional strain. Her fingers tangle in his hair, heavy silky strands at the back of his head running through her digits. He proceeds to caress her, drawing gentle circles, not pushing in, and not teasing her clit too much. The moustache and the beard sometimes brush at her skin, and it is the most exciting of sensations. She is panting, moaning quietly, pressing his head into her more and more firmly, and then he pushes his hands, palms up, under her buttocks.

And then he pulls her towards him, making her slide down the armchair. By then her body feels boneless, full of the most delicious fire and longing, and she welcomes the change in the position. She has to concede she will be more open and accessible this way.

And then he continues to move her down, and for an instant she does not understand his intention, and then her knees hit the floor. She opens the eyes that she did not know she closed, and sees him spread on the floor, his head between her legs, beneath her center.

Blush splashes on her cheeks, from the indecency of the situation, and from the thrill from the new position. He rises slightly and catches her folds between his lips. She cries out, from the intensity of pleasure. She is wide open, and she can see his burning blue eyes, and he is much more forceful now. The moustache scrapes at her clit, and she moans and falls ahead. Her hand grasps to the armrest of the chair frantically, and he hums approvingly. The vibration runs through her center, shooting exhilarating sensation up into her womb, and she raspily cries out.

His palms cover her buttocks, and he leads her down to his mouth. He is thorough, and his caresses are deliciously diverse: there are licks, his tongue now tense, and bolts similar to lightning flash through Wren's body; then he covers her with his open mouth, and his lips move, while his tongue is teasing her opening, and the arm she is supporting herself with starts shaking. He is pulling her down, and for an instant she is doubtful. She asks herself if he will be able to breathe if she lowers herself more, but his hands are insistent, and she moves her knees wider, going lower, pressing into his mouth more. His tongue is moving rhythmically, still in circles, but now it also slips inside her, tasting her inner walls, and some time ago she switched to loud chanting of his name. His large hot hands are kneading her bottom, and she has not noticed when she started grinding herself to him. The beard is scratching her sensitive skin almost painfully, and he is relentless. He is sucking at her vigorously now, and she is hollering. And then her eyes drop, almost against her will, and she meets his, the blue irises almost flooded by the black of the pupils. He holds her gaze, and then he shifts his mouth, and she can see his lips close around her clit. She can see the pink of his upper lip, under the black of his whiskers, among the dark red of her curls, and she feels the rapture approaching, a tight knot curling in her lower stomach. The muscles in her thighs start shaking noticeably, and he slides his mouth back again, covering her, and his tongue snakes inside her, rubbing the front wall.

With a loud scream, only his name on her lips, Wren climaxes, her body shaking violently, and then another wave comes, growing inside her like a forest fire, and she squeals and start keeling on one side.

The King lifts his arms, catching her, his palms splayed on her shoulder blades, and he shifts and carefully lowers her on the floor, rolling over her. He starts moving off her, but she wraps her shaking arms around his neck. She has no strength to add her legs around his waist, and she mewls weakly, no words to be formed in her mind.

He moves, picks her up, from under her knees and her back, and gets up in a fluid motion. Wren presses her burning face into his neck, breathing the familiar smell, listening to the tide of pleasure coursing her every fiber.

"Am I allowed back to my marital bed?" the King asks in an impish tone, and Wren weakly hums, signalling her approval. He chuckles, and places her on the sheets, covers and furs hastily pushes aside, while she is supported on one arm and a knee. It is his usual trick, she weighs nothing to him. Her head touches the pillow, and she cannot keep her eyes open. She blindly pushes her hand, and he picks up her fingers.

"Give me a jiffy, my heart." His voice is warm and loving. "I will wash my face and will join you."

After that Wren does not hear or remember anything, the sleep has taken her. Her dreams are peaceful and warm, and in her sleep she rolls into her husband, into the tight scorching embrace, and feels his lips on her temple. Half in her slumber, she mumbles that his needs will be addressed in the morning, and he answers something witty and flirtatious, but she cannot hear it either.

In the morning she keeps her promise, of course, but that is quite a different story, is it not?

**THE END**

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**My blog: kolmakov dot ca**

{two romance webserials, both inspired by my writing here}

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{_Blind Carnival_

modern romance/erotica humour story, initially written here}

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**CONVINCE ME THE WINTER IS OVER**

**{my first novel**

**inspired by the story initially written here}**

**Available on Amazon in Kindle and Paper!**

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**_Summary:_**

_Renee Miller is a reclusive web designer who, after several hours of delirium from flu, wakes up to find a stranger in boxer briefs standing in her bathroom._

_John is an archaeologist who finds himself stuck in a stranger's flat in a snowstorm._

_Frozen in her neat and clean world of highly functional anxieties and her history of childhood trauma, Renee is perhaps the worst possible host for her flatmate's boyfriend's colleague. Yet, while the fervent gush of life that is John Greaves disrupts her carefully guarded existence, Renee finds herself gradually yearning for more._

_Is John the first breath of Spring in her frigid world?_


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